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Lands of Summer 



LANDS OF 
SUMMER 

SKETCHES IN ITALY 
SICILY AND GREECE 
BY T. R. SULLIVAN 



'' To lands of summer across the 

seas'" 

Tennyson. The Daisy. 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN ^ 
COMPANY : M DCCCC VIII 



COPYRIGHT 1908 BY T. R. SULLIVAN 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published April IQ08 






r 



UBWARY of (MKMi^lESS 
Two Copies rtec«i~^j 

APR 18 1908 






TO MY WIFE 



CONTENTS 

SPRING-TIME WITH THEOCRITUS PAGE i 

FROM ATHENS TO CORFU 37 

MIDSUMMER IN TUSCANY 93 

BERGAMO AND THE BERGAMASQUE ALPS 141 

THE CENTENARY OF ALFIERI AT ASTI 175 

THE WRAITH OF A DUCAL CITY 209 

LIFE ON A TUSCAN FARM 229 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

OLYMPIA (P^ge 82) Frontispiece 

NEAR TAORMINA 2 

TEMPLE AT GIRGENTI 3 

TEMPLE OF APOLLO, CORINTH 38 

THE PARTHENON 39 

NEAR POPPI 94 

POPPI, CASENTINO VALLEY 95 

CHURCH CLOISTER NEAR ARDESIO 142 

COLLEONl's CASTLE OF MALPAGA 143 

PIAZZA UMBERTO I, ASTI 176 

STATUE OF VITTORIO ALFIERI, BY VINI 177 

POST-TOWN OF VAGLIAGLI 210 

SABBIONETA 211 

MANOR-HOUSE OF DIEVOLE 230 

OUTER AVENUE OF DIEVOLE 231 



'^ 



Spring'Time ivith 

Theocritus 




spring -Time with 

Theocritus 



After the long Paris winter, bleak, 
chilly, and dark, it seemed to us that we 
could not reach too quickly Sicilian sun- 
shine, with its attendant 

'' . , . aisles of pleasant shadow, greenly roofed 
By tufted leaves." 

So, in the cramped, uncomfortable Irain de 
luxe^ whose only real luxury was that of 

3 



Lands of Summer 

speed, we rushed in one day through the 
boot of Italy from straps to toe-cap, mak- 
ing of Rome but a railway-station, and at 
Naples, in the dead of night, getting the 
merest ghmpse of Vesuvius in a fine frenzy 
of eruption. We woke the next morning 
to find ourselves cautiously skirting the 
foam-flecked sea, on the edge of the Cala- 
brian landscape, awesome in its vast dis- 
tances scarred and seamed by earthquake, all 
gullies and dry torrents, bordered with cac- 
tus-hedges, half uprooted by subterranean 
convulsion. We hailed their thorny disks 
as harbingers of the warm south ; but alas ! 
the wind rose, the sun obscured itself, the 
blue sea paled ; and when, in the very teeth 
of Scylla and Chary bdis, our grimy train 
crawled aboard a modern ferry-boat for its 
unmomentous passage of those mythic perils, 
Sicily opened out before us gray and cold. 
At three o'clock in the afternoon of our 
third day we alighted shivering in the cen- 
tral railway-station of Messina. Still shiv- 

4 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

ering, we explored her squares and byways, 
shopped on the Marina and climbed her 
flowered hillsides, overlooking half the an- 
cient world, while the sun played hide-and- 
seek with us. April had come, but in the 
shape of a poor changeling from the north, 
making cynical sport of the semi - tropic 
vegetation. 

At Taormina, on the afternoon of our 
arrival, there was a raw sea-breeze, but the 
skies were clear; and the sun set magnifi- 
cently behind the snow-fields of Etna as we 
climbed to the top of the ruined theatre for 
a first look at its famous prospect. The the- 
atre, though restored by the Romans, is es- 
sentially Greek ; the seats are gone, but the 
inclosing walls remain, including those of 
the stage for which this ruin is remarkable. 
Its pillared exits and entrances fill all the 
foreground. Beyond, yet far beneath, lies the 
town on a lower hillside, sloping south to 
the sea from its rocky citadel, backed by the 
fortified mountain-peak of Mola; and, above 

5 



Lands of Summer 

all, out of chestnut forests, dotted with small 
villages, soars Etna's cone of purest white, 
perpetually plumed with curling smoke. It 
is the Fuji of Sicily, always recurring in the 
landscape. All views of it are fine, but none 
finer than this, in which its desert wastes of 
lava are either invisible or softened by the 
distance. The outlook here, in its splendid 
architectural setting, is at once panoramic 
and intimate, with nothing, far or near, to dim 
the sense of perfect beauty. The first glance 
from the broken wall with its nodding wild- 
flowers supports the judgment of the old- 
time traveller that this, with the Peak of 
TenerifFe and the far-off^ gleam of Damascus, 
is to be classed among the three wonder- 
views of the world. 

At the theatre-gate stands the inn, which 
has so loyal a following that the chance 
newcomer is often denied admission to it. 
Warned of this danger, we had telegraphed 
for rooms; but those assigned to our party 
of three were three small cells approached 

6 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

by an underground passage, so remote from 
one another that the jovial porter compared 
them to the three Sicihan cities, Messina, 
Catania, and Palermo. As he promised bet- 
ter things, however, later, we accepted our 
temporary lodging without a murmur. And 
in the following days so many less fortu- 
nate applicants were turned away that we 
grew thankful to be lodged at all. Though 
we Hved apart, in semi-monastic seclusion, 
down many a winding stair, our windows 
opened upon the inn-garden, which faces 
Etna and the shore in a series of time- 
worn terraces overgrown with flowers. There 
were beds of iris bordered with box, bowers 
of ilex, mossy fountains, and broken col- 
umns festooned with roses. A haven of 
peace, rest, and warmth — when the sun 
shone. But the weather proved worse than 
capricious. Our season was that exceptional 
one common to all climates. The next ten 
days were gray, cold, showery, or days of 
prolonged rain. Etna went in, and stayed 

7 



Lands of Summer 

in. Even the lizards avoided the prevailing 
dankness of that lovely spot, and lurked in 
the walls, instead of basking where sunshine 
should have been. Once, for half a day, the 
curse was removed. The King and Queen of 
England made a progress through the flower- 
strewn streets of Taormina under chiming 
bells. They saw the town as we should 
have seen it. And when they toiled up the 
theatre-steps, the mountain graciously un- 
cloaked itself before the lens of Alexandra's 
camera. Then the clouds came back ; we 
settled down for another spell of weather ; 
the oldest inhabiting invalids shook their 
heads and said that nothing like it had ever 
been known. 

At last the wind changed, rewarding us 
for patient waiting. We had nights of glo- 
rious moonlight, days of brilliant sunshine, 
when we explored the country far and wide, 
in a succession of walks along vineyard 
paths and mule-trails, down through olive 
groves into deep ravines, open toward the 

8 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

sea ; up from them to the ramparts of 
Mola and the wild mountain-passes beyond 
it, by precipitous cliffs, over half- ruined 
bridges with cascades foaming under them. 
The shepherds piped high on the hills as in 
the days of Daphnis and Menalcas, marshal- 
ling their scattered flocks. Sometimes the 
path ended suddenly in a tangled thicket ; 
and once, crawling on through the under- 
brush, we emerged upon the open grain- 
fields of a villa-farm reclaimed from the 
wilderness. The house and all its rambling 
out-buildings were closed; we climbed the 
low wall, crossed the stable -yard to the 
arched doorway of the main entrance, with 
its rudely sculptured armorial bearings, its 
niche for an enshrined Madonna ; and, in 
the shade of a trim pergola, looked across the 
garden, over gorge and mountain, to the blue 
Ionian waters, with the peaks of Calabria in 
the distance. All was in perfect order, the 
paths were raked and weeded, the iris-beds 
along the avenue were in full bloom. We 

9 



Lands of Summer 

walked down between them, meeting no 
sign of life, to an iron grille in the front 
wall of the estate. It was unlocked, and we 
passed out upon the bridle-path at the head 
of the valley, into the world again, leaving 
the place under the spell of its enchanting 
silence. None of the townspeople, whom 
we questioned, could give any clue to its 
ownership ; none even could recognize it 
from our description. It remains for us 
unidentified upon its secluded height, a 
day-dream of that April afternoon. 

Holy Week followed, with quaint, prim- 
itive ceremonials in which the whole town 
took part. On Good Friday an image of 
the Dead Christ was borne in the twilight the 
length of the Corso, attended by penitents 
from all the parishes carrying lighted tapers 
and emblems of the Passion, and marching 
thus in procession to solemn music. At 
noon, on Saturday, fire-crackers and explo- 
sives of all kinds were set off, in trionfo^ to 
mark the end of Lent. On Easter Sunday 

lO 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

a stage was built high up in one of the 
church facades for the performance of a mir- 
acle-play by six small angels; the Madonna 
and Christy in wood, of heroic size, met on 
the terrace below ; the angels crowned the 
Virgin amid a wild uproar of clanging bells 
and bursts of gunpowder ; then Christ, Vir- 
gin, the angelic host, priests, acolytes and a 
brass band, paraded the streets from one 
parish to another. The peasants of the coun- 
tryside rested from their labors for the fes- 
tival, and descended upon the town in their 
gayest colors. All day long they tramped 
the Corso. Our last impression of Taor- 
mina w^as like the song of the Psalmist — 
the loud noise, the rejoicing with trumpets 
and sound of cornet; the hills were joyful 
together and pelted it with flowers. 

The next morning we departed upon 
our long circuit of the island, making it in 
the wrong way, so-called, which is so much 
the more the right way for tranquil spirits. 
Obeying the guidebook, one should go from 

II 



Lands of Summer 

Palermo to Girgenti and SIracusa, by the cus- 
tomary route. We, on the contrary, went 
from Siracusa to Girgenti and Palermo, in 
this reversal evading a pestiferous swarm of 
springtide tourists, almost alone on our side 
of the railway. And a very agreeable railway 
it is : the roadbeds are smooth, the tunnels 
short and infrequent ; there is little smoke 
and less dust ; the carriages are light, wide 
and airy, with excellent dining-cars attached 
at intervals. A certain deliberation in meth- 
ods of procedure must be expected. But, 
this allowance made, there is no better train- 
service anywhere, and the absence of Anglo- 
Saxon hustle is refreshing. The train jogs 
along through towns and villages, between 
orange and lemon groves, often very near 
the sea, into which juts some towered pro- 
montory or pale green headland; now cross- 
ing a shallow river to follow the margin of 
a bay dotted with islands ; then turning in- 
land to brush over fields of wild-flowers — 
the amaryllis and the broom, the wild rose 

12 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

and its close counterpart, the cistus, the 
bright yellow spurge that grows in rifts of 
lava. The whole aspect is strange and ani- 
mating to northern eyes, marvellous in its 
ever- varying color. At luncheon, one day on 
the road to Girgenti, we crossed a meadow 
that spread away to the snows of Etna in one 
solid mass of poppies, so vivid as to bid "the 
rash gazer wipe his eye " more than once. 
The food was admirable and admirably 
served ; yet the coarsest fare would have 
done as well ; we have forgotten it. But we 
do not forget that our eyes were fed then, 
as never before nor since. It was like the 
radiance of a cloud at sunset, unearthly, on 
the earth incomparable. 

Slowly as the train proceeds, one would 
often be glad to delay it longer, especially 
in the heart of the island, where may be seen 
afar off large provincial towns, out of touch 
with travel, and walled mountain summits 
rising from shadowy depths, which were the 
grim retreats of brigands, by no means long 

13 



Lands of Summer 

ago. Of brigandage now one never hears, — 
or hardly ever, — for all statements concern- 
ing it are qualified most craftily. When spo- 
radic instances occur, — and that they do 
occur is universally admitted, — the vic- 
tims are always native Sicilians of reputed 
wealth. To be a foreigner is to pass unmo- 
lested. Nevertheless, when we had climbed, 
one afternoon, to the castle-fort on a lonely 
height above the town of Monreale in the 
outskirts of Palermo, we were told on our 
return that we had done an unwise thing. 
And we realized then, as we had not before, 
that the brace of gendarmes, whom we met 
strolling leisurely up the path as we came 
down, were probably walking that way on 
our account. The truth being, that while or- 
ganized bands of outlaws under semi-heroic 
chieftains are now extinct, footpads and high- 
waymen still haunt the neighborhood of the 
larger cities for plunder on the spot, or even 
for capture and prolonged captivity in the 
hope of ransom. Undoubtedly, they strive 

14 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

to discriminate between the native and the 
foreigner; and for this the foreigner must be 
duly grateful, as well as for the fact that the 
wild uplands about Taormina, where he is 
most likely to put their discretion to a prac- 
tical test, are entirely free from such ma- 
rauders. The peasants abounding there are 
simple, independent souls of the friendliest 
description. Even the whining wayside beg- 
gar is exceptional. This is due to the Eng- 
lish, who have established industrial schools, 
and labored otherwise with the happiest re- 
sult to make the people self-respecting. 

The famous monuments of Sicily, brought 
home, through photography, to all the 
world, have been described a hundred times. 
In civic art it is a lesser Italy, lacking the 
high achievement of the Renaissance, but 
glorified by rare treasures of the Byzantine 
period, like the Palatina Chapel at Palermo, 
and the churches of Monreale and Cefalu, 
which are second to none. The work of the 
Greek colonists, scattered far and wide, is of 

IS 



Lands of Summer 

great beauty, absorbing in its interest. Gir- 
genti, with its five ruined temples fronting 
the unsailed African Sea, has been epigram- 
matically declared more Greek than Greece, 
— a pious exaggeration. Their perfect form 
being one best expressed in marble, these 
columns and architraves were once overlaid 
with polished stucco to simulate it. What 
remains is of yellow sandstone ; so that, 
seen from a distance, the temples look like 
those carefully designed cork models which 
used to be kept under glass in classical 
schools. The style is there, without the tex- 
ture and the gleam. The comprehensive 
view of them on their green hilltops across 
the intervening valleys is justly renowned, 
yet it cannot truthfully be called Greek. As 
there is nothing like it anywhere, one may 
like it well, and let well alone. 

The Sicilian cities show marked individ- 
uality in their characteristics. Messina, on its 
splendid harbor, the natural anchorage of 
the straits, is a quiet seaport with a declining 

i6 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

trade ; Catania a populous, commercial one. 
Siracusa has dwindled to a fortified naval sta- 
tion, half-encompassed by idle, melancholy, 
suburban wastes that formed part of the 
ancient city. They include the grim prison 
quarries, the catacombs, the Greek theatre 
and amphitheatre, the street of tombs, and 
other ruined traces of the colonists. Pa- 
lermo, the capital, is a crowded, bustling, 
golden yellow city of three hundred and fifty 
thousand inhabitants. It is superbly placed 
on a wide sea-frontage, between mountain- 
capes, at the foot of the Conca d'Oro, — a 
richly cultivated valley, spreading out Hke 
the hollow of a huge shell, as its name indi- 
cates, to other mountains far inland. All the 
great steamship lines converge at Palermo ; 
its commercial importance steadily increases ; 
yet it remains metropolitan^ not cosmopoli- 
tan, — in touch with the world, but strangely 
out of it, adhering to antiquated, semi-bar- 
barous manners and customs, some of which 
seem purely oriental. A woman, for in- 

17 



Lands of Summer 

stance, must not walk alone in the streets 
there, no matter what her social rank may 
be. Even a maid-servant refuses to go ten 
steps to post a letter unaccompanied by her 
duenna. Everywhere, Palermo's methods 
suggest a dull disinclination to advance, — 
the apathy of the East, without the charm ; 
a remote insularity, where one feels caught 
in an eddy of the human current, — farther 
from the main channel than at Cairo. 

With our month of Sicily drawing to a 
close, we returned to Messina by the rail- 
way of the northern coast, under lofty Cape 
Tindaro and castled Milazzo, always in full 
view of the sea, from which rise vaguely, far 
away, the Lipari Islands, where iEolus bagged 
the winds and gave them to Ulysses. Bound 
for Greece by the shortest route, we had 
engaged passage in the steamship Stura of 
the Florio line. Looking absurdly small and 
none too seaworthy, she lay at anchor in the 
quiet harbor, across which an unwieldy row- 
boat conveyed us, long after dark, to board 

i8 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

the ship with some misgiving. It was an 
agreeable surprise to find the neat, com- 
fortable quarters of the first cabin all at our 
disposal, since we were its only passengers. 
The chief steward, Italo, was a brisk young 
Sicilian; his assistant, Gaetano, elderly, dig- 
nified, well-trained, an ideal servant. Both, 
clearly, stood in awe of the stewardess, 
whose tall, sibyUine figure dominated every- 
thing. She had superabundant, coal-black 
hair, flashing eyes, ruddy cheeks and a 
powerful voice, frequently uplifted in tones 
of command. All hands addressed her as 
" Madama." She wore an air of omniscience, 
singularly impressive. There was no gain- 
saying it. When she informed us that instead 
of merely touching at Catania, as on shore 
we had been led to believe was the custom, 
the ship would tie up there for twenty-four 
hours, we knew at once that she must be 
right. Later, we steamed down the straits, to 
wake early the next morning alongside the 
quay under the big stone mole, thirty feet 

19 



Lands of Summer 

high, and a quarter of a mile in length, 
which protects Catania's harbor. 

It was the first of May, the feast of the 
laboring classes in continental Europe, and, 
upon going ashore, we found the town given 
over to a general holiday. Pasted here and 
there upon the walls were posters, socialistic 
in their sentiment ; we met small bands of 
workingmen parading peacefully, but saw 
no demonstrations of an exciting charac- 
ter. Catania, the nearest city to Etna, has 
suffered much in past ages from eruption 
and earthquake shock. The rough lava-flow 
crops up in its streets, just as it congealed 
there long ago. It is not only built upon 
lava, but this most available material is also 
the chief element of its construction. Its 
dull, mercantile atmosphere had attracted us 
little, in our short visit, a fortnight before. 
But for some inscrutable reason Catania is 
the delight of most Sicihans, and even Ital- 
ians speak of it in a kind of ecstasy. We 
added to our knowledge of its sights on this 

20 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

feast-day ; then suddenly resolved to take 
a long drive out of it to Aci Castello, of 
which we had caught a fleeting impression 
in the earlier time from our railway car- 
riage. We thought this the brightest of 
inspirations ; but no excursion could have 
been more disappointing. We drove for six 
miles between walls too high to overlook, 
on a wretched lava-road, intolerably rough 
and dusty. Once there, we were in the land 
of song again; the land of Acis and Galatea, 
of trickling stream, sunny steep, and ruined 
stronghold, with the surf-beaten rocks of 
Polyphemus stranded as they fell from the 
giant's hand. Flowers grew everywhere ; 
even the contorted shapes of lava at our feet 
were garlanded with them. We had them all 
to ourselves, and we understood why, per- 
fectly. Nothing would have induced us to 
take that drive again. We dismissed our 
carriage on the spot, coming back in fifteen 
minutes by one of the infrequent trains 
which happily turned up at the proper time. 

11 



Lands of Summer 

Our ship was ominously tranquil, with 
clear decks and hatches battened down. 
"Madama" met us with word of another 
twenty-four hours' delay, owing to the in- 
opportune festa. " What ! another day in 
Catania ? '' we groaned ; " that can't be ! 
We want idyls, not your lava-ridden city. 
We will not bear it; it is impossible ! " 

The sibyl shrugged her shoulders. " Nev- 
ertheless," she declared, " it is so." 

So, of course, it was. The captain, whom 
we did not know even by sight, had gone 
ashore. We tried to make little of it, over 
an uncommonly good dinner, with Italo and 
Gaetano formally attending us in what we 
called our house-boat. We had Etna and the 
sea, the lights of Catania and moonlight 
afterward. Yet still we groaned. 

Very early in the morning the sound of 
many voices, disputing sharply in Sicilian 
dialect, aroused us. We rang the bell to 
make indignant protest. "Madama" an- 
swered it, and we observed at once her 

22 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

unnatural pallor, her look of tragic mys- 
tery. 

"What is the matter? " we asked. 

"Oh, it is grave ! " she whispered. "The 
crew refuses to work, — we have a strike, a 
mutiny ! I tell you this in confidence ; for 
Heaven's sake don't say I told you! But 
you will see ; it is grave! " And she disap- 
peared. 

Here was pleasant news ! We Hstened for 
confirmation, and heard, presently, a new 
voice, presumably the captain's, interrogat- 
ing the men in choice Italian. One by one, 
in the cabin, just outside our door, they 
came before him. In every case, question 
and answer were alike. " Have you any 
complaint to make ? " — " No." — " Yet you 
decline to work ? " — " Yes." — " Go forward, 
then, to the forecastle ! " 

To this burden of accompaniment, many 
times repeated, we held a council of war, 
and, deciding that it was useless to remain 
on board the Stura, began to pack our 

23 



Lands of Summer 

effects. When this had been accomplished, 
all outside was still again. We summoned 
" Madama" and told her of our decision. 

She went away, but almost immediately 
came back. " The captain desires to speak 
with you/' she announced. 

"Very well, show him in; we are here." 

" But you will not betray me ? Remem- 
ber, from me you know nothing." 

Reassured upon this point, she ushered in 
the captain, and waited, hovering behind 
him, with her finger on her lips. He was a 
native, handsome, jolly, alert, in age some- 
what under fifty. " You go away ? And 
why ? " he asked. 

" We have just heard your conversation 
with the sailors, and return to Messina to 
reclaim our passage-money. Since the Stura 
does not sail, why should we stay on board ? " 

" But the Stura will sail," he urged ; " we 
are well accustomed to affairs like this, we 
Sicilians, — it is nothing, a mere question 
of adjustment to be settled in no time." 

24 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

'' What ? You still hope to sail, then ? '' 

" Certainly, in a few hours/' he answered, 
laughing ; " oh, go if you like, I do not 
stand in your way ! But you are very com- 
fortable here ; my ship is all at your service. 
I advise you to remain and trust to me/' 

We looked down at the strapped trunks, 
beginning already to be sorry for our undue 
haste. 

" Well, what do you say ? " 

"We say that you are the captain, and 
that we shall obey your orders." And so we 
unpacked again. 

Our morning was spent upon the quays 
in a long stroll, during which we discovered 
that all the Italian vessels were tied up like 
our own. The general strike was the out- 
come of a dispute, prolonged through many 
months, between the labor unions and the 
Italian Navigation Company ; resulting in a 
peremptory order to stop work on May ist, 
issued from the union headquarters at Pa- 
lermo. The ships of other nations were load- 

^5 



Lands of Summer 

ing and discharging as if nothing had hap- 
pened. From the top of the high mole we 
surveyed them all, heartily wishing our- 
selves committed to some other craft. Our 
own showed no sign of activity until early 
afternoon, when gendarmes, soldiers, and 
gold-laced officials of every description 
began to swarm upon the deck, — one, of 
manifest importance, being pointed out as 
Commander of the Port. We went in among 
them, to be met by our own commander, a 
spiritless shadow of himself. He informed 
us that all attempts at compromise had been 
in vain ; his men would not listen to reason. 
"You had better go," he admitted mourn- 
fully; "I advise you to return to Messina." 
That was all very well, but we were al- 
ready too late for the afternoon train ; more- 
over, the cabin leading to our quarters was 
now given over to a conference of dignita- 
ries too august for interruption. To wait 
awhile, at least, seemed best. We accordingly 
withdrew to the hurricane-deck, and looked 

26 



Spring-Time with Theoa^itm 

down upon the scene, into which soon en- 
tered a procession of carriages, approaching 
at a gallop down the quay. They drew up 
in line, alongside, to the number of fourteen, 
waiting long, while the police chatted with 
the militia; while " Ee-ta-lo/' summoned 
repeatedly by hawk-like shrieks from " Ma- 
dama,'' flew back and forth, chiefly on pur- 
poses of refreshment, as appeared from the 
number of bottles that he bore into the cabin, 
where the higher officials still sat in secret 
conclave. 

At last the assembly dissolved, and the 
gendarmes were sent forward to the forecas- 
tle, whence, presently, they returned, bring- 
ing with them, as prisoners, the entire crew 
of twenty-eight, who were lined up on the 
main deck. The Commander of the Port 
produced a copy of the legal code, from which 
he read them the particular article that ap- 
plied to their transgression, involving the 
penalty of a year's imprisonment. Then he 
questioned each of the hands, always in the 

27 



Lands of Summer 

same terms. "Do you persist in your re- 
fusal to work ? " The answer was always 
"Yes;" and when all had so replied, they 
were promptly handcuffed together, two and 
two, conducted on shore to the carriages, 
and driven off, each couple with a gendarme 
in attendance. Many of them were young, 
mere boys in fact; these took the matter 
lightly, laughing, with a cheery farewell to 
the officers and to the captain, who stood 
apart, a sad spectator of these proceedings. 
Some of the older men looked grave; one 
grumbled, because he wore slippers, and was 
not permitted to go forward for his shoes; 
but none made the least show of resistance. 
All went willingly, gratified and encouraged 
by the demonstrations of a miscellaneous 
crowd, gathered upon the pier to give each 
prisoner, as he was carried away, the hearti- 
est good wishes. 

This process of deportation was a slow 
one, and before it was entirely over, our 
dinner was announced. We dined by our- 

28 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

selves, with our minds turning toward the 
midnight train. But while we lingered over 
coffee, the captain, whose spirits rose and 
fell like a New England thermometer, joined 
us in a very cheerful mood. All, now, was 
going well ; he would ship a new crew in the 
morning ; at night, he hoped to sail. " So you 
had better stick to the ship!" he concluded. 
That course was certainly the easiest, if not 
the wisest, and veering like weathercocks, 
we accepted it again. 

Soon after daybreak work began, but only 
work of unloading. " Madama " took ma- 
lignant delight m assuring us that we could 
not possibly get off that day. This time we 
doubted her, quoting the captain to prove 
the contrary; but she laughed scornfully, 
insisting all the more. And again she was 
right. For when the great man sat down with 
us at breakfast, he jauntily remarked that 
to-morrow the loading would begin. Raging 
inwardly, we wandered off to the town, 
which, now, we hated. But it was our only 

29 



Lands of Summer 

time-killing resource. We dragged ourselves 
to the principal park, the Villa Bellini, and 
loitered there for hours, embowered in roses. 
Yet, in spite of them, the place had an air 
of neglect that was far from exhilarating. 
When, late in the afternoon, we returned 
to the ship, the discharging was at an end. 
Boxes of oranges and lemons were actually 
sliding into the hold. After dinner the cap- 
tain joined us upon the quarter-deck, stir- 
ring our tardy sympathies with detached 
fragments of his history. He had been in a 
hospital, seriously ill, for months, to be met 
on his return to duty by this catastrophe. 
The crew of the adjacent ship, the Solferino, 
had given in. Could his own men have 
foreseen that, instead of obeying blindly the 
orders from Palermo, they, too, might have 
yielded. Now, they would all be sent to 
prison, undoubtedly. He made no further 
promises of speedy departure, but even 
hinted that, as his new crew was not en- 
tirely complete, we must expect more cabin 

30 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

conferences to-morrow. We sank to sleep 
in desperation. 

Throughout the following day our dock 
under the great stone mole was a roaring 
tumult of men, horses, and laden carts, com- 
ing, going, or tangled together, without sys- 
tem, without leadership. All the men yelled 
at once, all the time, whether heeded or not. 
Conferences were resumed in the cabin, 
while the cargo somehow shunted itself into 
the hold. The captain, later, told us that his 
crew was engaged ; but even then he gave 
no hope of sailing. At five in the afternoon 
the turmoil was at its height. On the nar- 
row quay, at that hour, we counted fifty 
carts piled high with oranges, lemons, and 
bags of sulphur. We dined at half-past six, 
while the deafening racket still went wildly 
on. Just at sunset, however, the captain 
suddenly gave orders that no more freight 
would be received. Thereupon, the yells 
redoubled in force. Scores of disappointed 
teamsters stormed and swore, threatening 

31 



Lands of Summer 

all on board with torments of the damned, 
if we left them in the lurch. But in spite 
of that, the hatchways were closed, the 
planks withdrawn. We were really to sail at 
last, as even "Madama" agreed. But sail- 
ing was a long, slow affair, badly bungled. 
The hands proved painfully new at it. The 
captain danced about, now ordering, now 
appealing. " Let me breathe the pure air 
of the open sea! " he implored ; while one 
of his officers whispered to us that the crew 
was composed of cobblers and concierges 
who had never been on the sea, open or 
shut, in their lives. 

Through all this waste of time, the exas- 
perated mob on shore never stopped curs- 
ing for a single instant. Between eight and 
nine o'clock, in full, clear moonlight, we 
drifted slowly away, leaving it astern, still 
cursing. In a few moments we rounded the 
flashing lighthouse at the end of the mole, 
and put the Sicilian inferno out of sight and 
hearing. The detested city of Catania, with 

32 



Spring'Thjie with Theocritus 

all its lighted windows and Etna glistening 
behind it in silvery lines, looked like some 
master-painter's dream of paradise. And 
before us, in grateful silence, lay the smooth, 
dark sea. 

We woke far out on the blue waters of 
the Mare lonio, which behaved wonderfully 
well, considering its evil reputation as the 
worst spot in the whole Mediterranean for 
discomfort. Our rate of speed was plainly 
very low ; so, too, was the rate of discipline. 
The sailors shuffled about like tramps ; the 
trimness and tidiness so conspicuous in 
an ocean voyage were wholly wanting, — 
nothing was ship-shape. But the barome- 
ter stood at "set fair; '' and as we steamed 
slowly along, birds of brilliant plumage, 
from the land just under the horizon-line, 
surrounded us. 

^' The crested lark 

Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan/' 

and all the song-birds of Theocritus flut- 
tered through the rigging, or perched upon 

33 



Lands of Summer 

the spars. The officers armed themselves 
with shot-guns, and, dashing madly fore and 
aft, brought down their game indiscrimi- 
nately, whether it could be bagged or not. 
The abandoned wounded splashed along- 
side and drifted struggling in our wake. To 
the atrocious sport we alone objected. " Ma- 
dama '' chuckled at it ; Italo was in the sev- 
enth heaven ; the captain himself, taking the 
lead, gloried in its reckless achievements. 
Before long, life on deck became impossible. 
A turtle-dove, pruning himself upon the 
cross-trees, was a shining mark. He tried to 
fly, wavered, then dropped into our group, 
spattering us with blood. We went below, 
and listened to the triumphant shouts of the 
sportsmen over each new victim. The cap- 
tain came in for dinner, rubbing his hands 
with glee. "Turtle-doves are good eating," 
he said. But they all went to the officers' 
table ; none were served to us. 

iEolus had bagged the winds again. The 
next day, on a sea like a mill-pond, we drew 

34 



Spring-Time with Theocritus 

near the mountains of the lower Peloponne- 
sus and the island of Cerigo, passing them 
at night. All day our attendant land-birds 
flocked to the slaughter, which increased in 
fury. On the next they came no more; the 
decks reassumed their normal air of quiet 
disorder. We touched at Canea, the capital 
of Crete, and, leaving Cape Spada behind, 
steered for the calm ^gean. In the gray 
dawn the adventurous life upon our house- 
boat came to an end. It had presented an 
amusing side of which we were not unmind- 
ful. We had been treated as strange guests, 
with the courtes}^ of the port and of the sea. 
Yet we landed at the Piraeus like prisoners 
newly released, rejoicing to be free of the 
Stura and all her tattered crew. 



From Athens 

to Corfu 




From Athens 

to Corjii 

I 

Before journeying for the first time 
into a strange land, one naturally seeks the 
advice of more experienced travellers, espe- 
cially if that be unencumbered by any obli- 
gation to follow it. In girding ourselves for 
Greece^ therefore, we took counsel, not of 
one but of many; and the many minds we 

39 



Lands of Summer 

met left us in a state of more than common 
bewilderment. All roads led to Athens, but, 
out of it, opinions concerning them con- 
flicted hopelessly. Spots on the one hand so 
difficult of access as really to be not worth 
while, on the other were of great impor- 
tance and the easiest to reach. Improved 
itineraries cropped up continually, overshad- 
owing the old familiar ones. And, strangely 
enough, all the irreconcilable statements 
were true, or had been true at the moment 
of experience. The fact being that the land 
changes hourly with new railways and steam- 
ship lines, new excavations and new hotels 
to match, so that the Greece of five years 
ago is not modern Greece at all. 

On two points, however, opinions were 
practically unanimous. Unable, as we were, 
to speak a word of modern Greek, we should 
find ourselves helpless ten steps away from 
Athens ; no other language would be of any 
use ; we must consequently employ a drag- 
oman. And we must prepare ourselves for 

40 



From Athens to Corfu 

dust of a peculiarly fine, penetrating sort, 
which everywhere would annoy us. So in- 
sistent were all upon this latter point, that 
"It never rains in Athens" became our 
byword long before arrival there. We did 
not, of course, quote the newly invented 
proverb literally, applying it to all the cal- 
endar months. But May was the particu- 
lar month chosen for our visit; and we felt 
sure of continuous fine weather then. This 
assurance the guidebook confirmed by its 
meteorological record under the head of 
"Climate;" according to which, even so 
much as a drop of dew was unheard of from 
May to September, and but fourteen thun- 
der-storms occurred annually at Athens, — 
presumably, not all in spring. 

It was somewhat disconcerting to land at 
the Piraeus on a May morning under leaden 
skies which, in another country, would have 
threatened rain. Convinced, here, that the 
threat was idle, we took an open carriage, 
and started cheerfully upon the hour's drive 

41 



Lands of Summer 

up from the port to town. But we had not 
gone far when the first drop fell. A mo- 
ment later came the deluge. We packed 
away our dust-protectors and put up the car- 
riage-top, cutting ourselves off from all the 
prospect. But this was rather a relief than 
otherwise. For to eyes fresh from Sicilian 
fields, the landscape seemed the abomination 
of desolation. Even the sea looked color- 
less and cold. Phaleron, the fashionable 
watering-place, stretched along the shore its 
barricade of ugly buildings ; while the plain 
beyond it, across which we sped in the rain, 
opened up an expanse of desert land, un- 
kempt, neglected. We had been warned that 
we should find it bare and treeless. But no 
warning could have foreshadowed its ster- 
ility. Even the Libyan desert has color in 
it, as well as variety of surface. Here all 
was uniformly level, bleak, deadly, dull 
beyond words. 

We drove out of it through tame, unpeo- 
pled streets to the centre of all things, the 

42 



From Athens to Cor^fu 

Constitution Square, plunging suddenly into 
life and movement; color, too, — for, be- 
sides the citizens, there were trees and flow- 
ering shrubs, bronze groups and splashing 
fountains. We stopped before the door of 
the principal hotel, magnificently vast; mag- 
nificently extortionate, too, as we soon dis- 
covered. All its prices had been doubled 
for the Olympic Games, and though the 
games were done, the preposterous charges 
held their own; nor could any eflfort of ours 
reduce them by a single drachma. But it was 
not long before we found better quarters for 
half the money at a less pretentious hotel, 
a few steps ofi^. There, of course, we es- 
tablished ourselves, and there we remained 
during all our stay in Athens, well cared 
for, by men-servants chiefly. There was 
one exception, a benignant, elderly woman, 
who came to the front at critical moments 
so readily, that we christened her "Old 
Mother Comfort." 

The rain stopped at noon, the sky cleared, 

43 



Lands of Summer 

and the sun shone out upon the city, which, 
turning from drab to white, looked sud- 
denly like the ephemeral fabric of an expo- 
sition, all lightness and gayety. Unfamiliar 
costumes brightened the streets, where the 
pavements lay hidden under a yellow coat- 
ing of slimy mud, into which the fine dust 
we had been taught to dread transforms it- 
self at the slightest provocation. The dust, 
as dust, we never saw at all, either then or 
afterwards, anywhere in Greece; probably 
because, as usual, the season was excep- 
tional. On the contrary, every step we took 
bemired us more and more ; and our first 
walk explained why the boot-black class 
thrives as it does in the streets of Athens. 
They are not the ramshackle boot-blacks 
familiar to us in other lands, but an organ- 
ized band of well-dressed, intelligent boys, 
carrying very neat, brass-trimmed boxes, 
on which a peculiar knock with the back 
of the brush serves to solicit custom ; and 
this does not fail them, for the Athenian, 

44 



From Athens to Corfu 

whether dusty or muddy, must have his 
boots blacked many times a day. The boys 
swarm, in consequence, about the cafes, 
which are thronged at all hours of the day 
and night. 

We made our way through the crowd, 
across the square, taking a short cut to the 
Acropolis, and in a retired corner came 
unexpectedly upon the beautiful little mon- 
ument of Lysicrates, looking just as it does 
in the books. Then by narrow byways issu- 
ing upon a wide, outer boulevard, where no 
one walked but ourselves, we brought up 
at the ruined theatre of Dionysos ; and find- 
ing the marble seats already dry, we basked 
upon them, like lizards in the sunshine, long 
enough to fix an impression of the place. 
As we surveyed its exquisite proportions 
and the fine sculptures of the stage, some 
of which stand almost uninjured, our droop- 
ing spirits rose a little. Here was the fabled 
charm of things beginning to unfold itself. 
Perhaps if we steeped our minds in this, we 

45 



Lands of Summer 

could absorb a little of it, and the rest would 
seem less awful. Yet there was something 
else. We had detailed instructions from an 
adept of the best period, which must be 
followed to the letter. We pulled them out, 
and reviewed them carefully. We were to go 
on up the road blindly, with downcast eyes, 
never pausing until we reached a certain 
spot upon the hillside just above the so- 
called Prison of Socrates. There we were 
to stop, to turn and look back upon what 
would startle and subdue us, — the Parthe- 
non, at the point of all others from which 
it must be seen for the first time. 

Overhead, at least, it was a wonderful 
afternoon, the best imaginable for the pious 
pilgrimage so thoughtfully devised for us. 
We obeyed orders, therefore, with the ut- 
most caution, seeing little but the puddles 
under foot and the scanty grass through 
which we climbed the hill, until we reached 
our resting-place. Then our eyes were 
opened. We saw the great plain stretching 

46 



From Athens to Corfu 

off to the slopes of Mount Hymettos, the 
blue ^gean, the island of iEgina. At our 
feet was the cloven rock of the Areopagus ; 
and just beyond it in the foreground rose 
the Acropolis with its cumulative wealth of 
marbles, some white, some golden yellow ; 
with the pillared gates, the giant staircase, 
the splendid portico of the Erechtheum 
outlined against the sky ; and, crowning all, 
the masterpiece of Phidias, a shattered ruin, 
wantonly wrecked and plundered, yet still, 
in its impoverished state, the temple of tem- 
ples, alone, unrivalled, supreme in perfect 
beauty. We stood awakened unawares ^^ to 
the glory that was Greece." The spell had 
been wrought upon the instant. This was 
the land of gods and heroes, after all. 

Thenceforward, naturally, the Acropolis 
became the first thought of all our days. 
Whether we wandered over its ruined acres, 
mentally reconstructing entablatures, or, in 
the slang of archaeologists, getting on to 
the curves of entasis and proving the level- 

47 



Lands of Summer 

headedness of isokephalism ; whether we 
studied the treasured fragments in its small 
museum, — the only modern building of the 
classic citadel, so artfully concealed as to be 
no disturbance ; whether we looked up at it 
from the plain, or down at it from hill and 
mountain-slope, it was always the domi- 
nating feature in our minds as in the pros- 
pect. We carried it away with us every- 
where in Greece, we brought it home to the 
"Golden North Americas/' The impres- 
sion once made, like that of the Pyramids or 
of Giotto's Tower, holds unshaken, defying 
change of place and lapse of time. 

That dominant note, struck so long ago 
by the architects of the Parthenon, prevails 
to this day throughout the modern city, 
where, in all public buildings, the classic 
style, with marble colonnades and highly 
colored decorative friezes, has been applied 
to present needs creditably, if not always 
triumphantly. The University and the Na- 
tional Museum, dignified, impressive, are 

48 



From Athens to Corfu 

admirable in their restraint. The more am- 
bitious fa9ades of the Academy and the 
Library force inevitable comparison with 
the immortal work of the past^ — too exact- 
ing a test ; yet that the creative ambition 
was a fine one must be instantly admitted. 
All are well placed, gaining their full effect 
by ample approaches through ornamental 
grounds. There is a street of private houses, 
built of marble wrought into the same clas- 
sic forms, each standing apart in its own 
garden, enviably open to the light and air. 
Nothing anywhere is hemmed in, and every 
new piece of construction seems the part of 
a preconsidered general scheme. Uniform- 
ity of line, variety of detail ! The old for- 
mula, so well worked out, gives Athens a 
distinction peculiarly its own, to which the 
white marble, freely used, contributes much 
by its lightness and delicacy. It is a city 
of pleasant distances and cheerful breath- 
ing-places, not too large for comfort ; shops, 
cafes, restaurants, alike are excellent ; with 

49 



Lands of Summer 

cabs and tramways it is fairly well provided ; 
but it sadly needs a corps of crossing-sweep- 
ers under an efficient street commission. 
The metropolitan pavements, the suburban 
roadbeds, are all abominable. 

Our days went on under clouded skies, 
from which frequent showers descended 
upon us, usually accompanied by thunder 
and lightning. We began by counting the 
thunder-storms; but when half the fourteen 
allotted to Athens in any one season had 
occurred in a single week, we lost the reck- 
oning. Our wise saw, " It never rains in 
Athens," came laughably untrue, and to re- 
place it we invented another which stayed 
by us to the end, — " In Greece expect the 
unexpected!" This phrase should be ever 
on the lips of the intelligent traveller, and 
we bound up the wounds of many a disap- 
pointment by repeating it a dozen times a 
day. 

Our cunning adept had charged us on no 
account to neglect one short excursion, not 

50 



From Athens to Corfu 

dwelt upon in the books^ — that to the an- 
cient monastery of Kaesariani on the slope 
of Hymettos. So, one bright afternoon, 
when the daily cloudburst was over, we char- 
tered a victoria and set forth among the 
ruts of the plain, wrenching our wheels at 
every turn. We crossed a muddy crevice 
in the ground, where pigs were wallowing, 
which, as we were shocked to learn, was 
the historic Ilissos ; and we went wearily 
onward into dismal barrenness. There, the 
only sign of life was a group of horsemen 
afar off, wheeling and careering, as if in mil- 
itary manoeuvres. But a little in advance of 
us we saw a red flag fluttering upon a staffs 
On our remote left came a puff^ of smoke, 
followed by a sharp report ; on the remote 
right stood a white disk that looked un- 
commonly like a target; and our road lay 
directly between them. A trooper galloped 
toward us frantically, warning us to turn 
back ; another rod, and we should be in 
peril of our lives! We put about with no 

51 



Lands of Summer 

unnecessary delay ; the excursion at that mo- 
ment was impossible. But our conveyance 
was hired for the afternoon, and we left the 
employment of it to our driver's discretion, 
which was exercised swiftly and decisively. 
Since we could not explore Hymettos, we 
should try Pentelikon; our objective point 
on one of its lower spurs being, according 
to him, a truly wonderful place, the famous 
spring of Marousi. 

Of course, we had never heard of it. But 
as we bowled along the straight highroad 
up the open valley, we felt that our confi- 
dence was justified. The drive, though long, 
as all Greek drives are, was new and strange 
throughout; toward the end of it the val- 
ley narrowed, and we came up from sunny 
grain-fields to wooded slopes between stern 
mountain-ridges ; the ancient quarries of 
Pentelic marble gleamed before us ; we 
passed by the walled gardens and trim villas 
of an Athenian summer resort into quaint 
village streets, beyond which in an open 

52 



From Athens to Corfu 

space, or plattay planted with pine trees, the 
spring, bubbling from its stone reservoir, 
filled a deep, oblong basin to the brim with 
clearest water. Ducks were splashing in it, 
and as we sat down upon its border, they 
paddled toward us, clamoring for food. We 
ordered this for them and for ourselves at a 
neighboring cafe ; then, sitting there a long 
time, we watched the peasants who came in 
groups to fill their water-kegs. The women 
did the work, bearing off the heavy weights 
on bowed shoulders, while the men lounged 
and criticised. All wore the native costume, 
against which a progressive rising genera- 
tion has set its face ; it will soon be a thing 
of the past. That survival, existing, appar- 
ently, for our especial benefit, brightened all 
the twilight as we drove back to town. Ma- 
rousi was done and well done, even though 
our monastery had been cut off from us at 
the cannon's mouth. 

Upon inquiry, we were informed that the 
artillery manoeuvres of which we had caught 



Lands of Summer 

a glimpse would soon be over. But when, 
on a later afternoon, we started for Kaesa- 
riani once more, the same dead line was 
drawn for us. Again we faced the field, the 
target, and the cannon-ball. This time we 
halted, with a demand to be told officially 
when the plain would be free from their 
infernal practice. The answer was that it 
would go on daily for at least a month, — 
but only in the afternoon. If we desired 
to climb Hymettos, the road was open to 
us in the morning hours. Early the next 
day, therefore, we entered upon the familiar 
expedition for the third time ; at last, suc- 
cessfully. 

The impossible road grew worse and 
worse, until, as we toiled up the barren 
mountain, it seemed little better than the 
bed of a dry torrent. The denuded solitude 
around us was dispiriting. Suddenly, at a 
turn of the rough watercourse, all changed. 
We entered a gorge wondrous in fertility, 
overgrown with cypress, fig, and olive; with 

54 



From Athens to Corfu 

rustling poplars and beeches of prehistoric 
grandeur. In the midst of this grove stood 
the monastery, an irregular mass of roofs, 
towers, and cloisters, built in the eleventh 
century over a pagan temple. Flowers of all 
hues gleamed in the grass ; there was run- 
ning water everywhere ; it trickled down the 
mountain, it gushed out from a spring under 
an arch of the monastery wall, still orna- 
mented with a marble ram's-head of the 
earlier shrine. The buildings looked disman- 
tled and uninhabited. 

We walked on up the gorge to a small, 
empty chapel with a lamp burning before 
the altar ; and back through silence, broken 
only by the bird-songs, the murmur of bees, 
and the rippling water. Then we heard 
voices, and saw three peasants driving a 
sympathetic, inquisitive goat toward us 
along the grass-grown path. They stopped 
at sight of us, with kindly intent making it 
clear that we could enter the monastery, if 
we wished to do so. They shouted and beat 

55 



Lands of Summer 

upon one of the barred doors, which, at last, 
was opened by a grave young monk, who 
admitted us to a cloistered court, neatly 
kept, with well-ordered flower-beds. A clear 
stream ran down the centre over a bed of pol- 
ished marble; Ionic columns stood about; 
fragments of early sculpture were built into 
the walls, making it hard to determine where 
temple ended and cloister began. At the 
back was a dark chapel with its altar and 
swinging lamps, its candles and icons. The 
monk did the honors of this quiet sanctuary, 
which has known no change but the slow one 
of disintegration for many centuries. As its 
doors closed behind us, the bright morning 
came abruptly to an end. We drove back in 
a fierce mountain storm, which whirled be- 
fore us into Athens, where the streets were 
already deep in mud again. It cleared away, 
of course, in time for the manoeuvres ; but 
these we had finally outmanoeuvred, in a 
propitious hour. 



56 



From Athens to Corfu 

II 

Meanwhile, our preparations for a tour 
of Phokis and Argolis had been slowly 
going forward, overswayed always by the 
dreadful spectre of the dragoman, whom we 
were taught to consider an essential nui- 
sance. But daily the thought of subjection 
to him grew more uncomfortable ; we had 
learned a few polite phrases of modern 
Greek, which gave us confidence far in ex- 
cess of our knowledge, resulting in an auda- 
cious resolve to disregard advice and make 
the journey by ourselves. We bought tick- 
ets in advance, of the principal Athenian 
agent, who spurred us on with a document 
of instructions covering every step of the 
way. Armed with this, we left our heavy lug- 
gage behind, and one gloomy, wet morning, 
in light marching order, bade farewell for 
a time to the hotel staff. These good folk 
evidently thought the undertaking a rash 
one. The chamberman shook his head in 

57 



Lands of Summer 

doubt, and "Old Mother Comfort" stared 
at us with pained surprise. 

The first stage was short, by electric 
railway to the Piraeus, where we were to 
embark upon a steamer for the Gulf of 
Corinth. But at the terminal station a rude 
shock awaited us : the commissionaire, upon 
whom we depended for guidance to the 
landing, could not be found. Instead, there 
confronted us a small army of porters, all 
speaking at once, for the most part unintel- 
ligibly. We gleaned at last one incredible 
fact, — that no steamer would sail that day. 
Producing our tickets, we protested and 
insisted ; until one of the band, perceiving 
that we were not to be convinced, shoul- 
dered our luggage in desperation, and led 
us through rain and mud to the steamship 
office. There his statement was speedily 
confirmed. Our steamer, laid up for repairs^ 
could not be put in commission for nearly a 
week. One of its scheduled sailing-days had 
been quietly ignored, and we had chanced 

58 



From Athens to Corfu 

upon it. No course was open to us but an 
ignominious return to Athens. 

The unexpected ! We cheered each other 
with our proverbial gibe about it, as we 
journeyed back under the light luggage 
which seemed, now, of double weight. Then 
we noticed that all the house-fronts were 
hung with flower-garlands. Why? we asked; 
and were told that the fourteenth of May, 
masquerading as the first, in Greece, under 
the Julian Calendar, was a national holiday. 
Our own May-Day of a fortnight earher had 
proved a most unlucky one to us in Sicily; 
a day of labor-union decrees and strikes, 
upsetting plans, retarding progress. Had we 
but known the date, we might well have 
foreseen a repetition of that disaster. But 
then it would not have been Greece, for 
the expected would have happened. 

We had not exhausted the resources of 
Athens, where our enforced delay soon 
ceased to be vexatious. The days passed 
swiftly, with no more rain than usual. In 

59 



Lands of Summer 

due course, we set out again, this time on 
a perfect morning. Our steamer was an ex- 
cursion-boat, pressed into freight service, 
cranky and overcrowded. We sailed an hour 
late, but, once out of the harbor, all dis- 
comfort sank into insignificance before the 
beauties of the Saronic Gulf, up which we 
steamed between the islands of Salamis and 
^gina. The mountains skirted it on either 
hand in wild, lofty ranges ; the blue waves 
danced their gentlest measure. Our fellow- 
passengers, chiefly native, were of all classes, 
interesting to watch and study. Thus we 
proceeded, in the early afternoon passing 
through the straight cut across the isthmus 
which forms the Corinthian canal ; so nar- 
row that the steamer almost grazed its yel- 
low banks ; so deep that our only view 
was of the sky-strip overhead and the airy 
net-work of the railroad-bridge midway, 
on which, far above us, a train rushed by. 
There are but four miles of this strange 
channel, and in a few minutes we issued 

60 



From Athens to Corfu 

from it to look back at Corinth under its 
high mountain-citadel. Before us opened 
wide the waters of the Corinthian Gulf, 
inclosed by rocky peaks^ with the snow- 
capped summits of Helicon and Parnassos 
on our right, towering over all. Their foot- 
hills spring directly from the gulf; and, 
gradually nearing these steep, brown cliffs 
of the northern shore, we steered for a nar- 
row bay, at the end of which stands the 
small town of Itea, the landing-place for 
Delphi, whither we were bound. 

As the afternoon waned, clouds gathered 
about the mountain-tops, the breeze fresh- 
ened, the waves began to dance more vig- 
orously, even insolently to toss their heads. 
Our merry company of chattering Greeks 
grew heavy-hearted, lapsing, with closed 
eyes, into pallid silence. Little by little, the 
crowd melted away, mysteriously segregated 
in stuffy, inadequate retreats of the under- 
world ; until at the bay's mouth, where the 
voyage became most exciting, close under 

6i 



Lands of Summer 

Parnassos, few were left above board to 
enjoy it. Drawn on into quiet water, we 
slowly reassembled in somewhat chastened 
form. Just before sunset the landing was 
effected by means of small boats. On the 
pier a carriage waited for us ; and we entered 
at once upon our long drive through the 
valley, up the Parnassian spur to the point 
where, two thousand feet above the gulf, 
the French, a few years ago, laid all that 
could be found of ancient Delphi open to 
the world. 

The sun went down as we wound slowly 
up from the olive groves, vineyards, and 
wheat-fields of the fertile plain. Across it 
passed a long train of pack-laden camels, — 
the only ones now left in Greece, last sur- 
vivors of the Turkish rule. In the twilight 
we came to the ancient village of Chryso, a 
large settlement straggling along the moun- 
tainside. The day's work was done ; the 
villagers, at sound of our approach, flocked 
in the streets to inspect us curiously, al- 

62 



From Athens to Corfu 

ways with the pleasant salutation, " Kali 
spera^' — Good-evening ! — spoken in a 
gentle voice. In a few moments we looked 
down upon their roofs and belfries. The 
distant summits still gleamed in rosy light; 
but already the lamps of Itea twinkled 
against the dark water of the bay. Night, 
deepening there, stole up around us ; over- 
head faint stars brightened, multiplied ; and 
we climbed on for another hour and more 
in the darkness ; coming then to Kastri, the 
new village substituted by the excavators of 
Delphi for one built upon its very site, which 
they were forced to destroy. It stands under 
a rocky ridge, round which, just beyond the 
village, the road made a sharp turn, open- 
ing up a new prospect of sky and stars. 
And there, at the turning-point, we stopped 
before the door of our hotel, the Pythian 
Apollo. 

On the following day — a perfect one 
of spring — we saw Delphi at its best, an 
experience never to be forgotten, yet impos- 



Lands of Summer 

sible to describe. How could one reproduce 
in words, or adequately through any me- 
dium, the vast, intersecting valleys, the green 
meadows, the gentle hillsides, the winding 
river ? Parnassos, and its rough ravines ; the 
wide outlook over the Corinthian Gulf; the 
mountain-barrier, encircling and defending 
all? It is landscape on a grand scale, defy- 
ing comparison in color, light, and form, 
before which one stands at gaze, astounded, 
silent. Nature's combination here is of a 
special wonder, outstripping the possibility 
of expression. 

When one descends from the heights, 
turning from broad effects of nature to con- 
template man's fragmentary work, all pre- 
conceived notions are at once overthrown. 
As elsewhere in Greece, except at Athens, 
so little remains in situ above ground, that 
discovery seems to comprise only traces of 
ruin, rather than ruin itself. The pavement 
of a sacred way, the line of some foundation 
wall, a fallen shaft or broken capital over- 

64 



From Athens to Corfu 

grown with weeds, — these, and not much 
else to stimulate imagination, bring, at ifirst, 
mere bewilderment to the lay explorer. By 
degrees, one learns to accept this, and in 
time, through study, one acquires a sense 
of the archaeologist's joy at finding any- 
thing saved from the destructive forces of 
earthquake and warring nations. The most 
important fragments stand apart in the 
local museum, which is always a delight, — 
at Delphi, a rare one. But there, the first 
absorbing thought is of the Delphic oracle, 
which makes no responsive sign. The chasm 
of prophetic vapor is obliterated; the temple 
is thrown down, and all details of its arrange- 
ment are indeterminate. Within what must 
have been its Hmits, one confronts irritating 
disappointment. The neighboring theatre 
is in better case, for, though the stage is 
gone, the seats remain almost undisturbed, 
surrounded by grain-fields which encroach 
upon them here and there. From the upper 
tier, where a band of friendly reapers was 

65 



Lands of Summer 

at work, we overlooked the sacred precincts 
and all the splendid solitude. 

Behind us opened the gorge of the Cas- 
talian Fountain, a dark, uncanny rift in the 
mountainside. At its mouth is the ancient 
rock-hewn basin into which the spring still 
flows under rude recesses in the cliflF that 
once held votive offerings. Just across the 
road is a line of old plane trees, — offshoots, 
it may be, of those recorded in the earliest 
chronicles. Sitting in their shade, we watched 
the village life of which the spring's outlet 
seemed to be the common centre. As the 
memorable day drew to a close, the activi- 
ties of the place redoubled. Peasants came 
and went, driving laden donkeys, or great 
herds of goats in solid phalanx, — there are 
more goats than human beings in Greece, 
as we are told, and we can well believe it ; 
the gleaners toiled homeward on foot under 
the burden of their sheaves. The shadows 
lengthened in the valley, the sun set, and 
we lingered on, getting there of Delphi 



From Athens to Corfu 

our last and best remembrance. Before day- 
break we were off, driving down toward 
Itea in the dark, to be overtaken, half-way, 
by broad sunshine. At the port we rejoined 
our ship, and steamed immediately away, 
along the Gulf of Corinth. 

Three miles from the modern town lies 
old Corinth, for centuries marked only by 
seven monolithic columns of a temple to 
Apollo, standing upon a bleak hillside. 
Ten years ago the American School took 
possession there, and has now excavated a 
large portion of the ancient city. Streets, 
colonnades, and temples may be traced by 
their substructures, leading up to the foun- 
tain, Peirene, renowned for ages throughout 
Greece ; and of its sacred environment much 
more is left. Here are courts, walls, basins, 
dating from Greek, Roman, and Byzantine 
periods, a priest's sanctuary and good sculp- 
tured detail, entirely comprehensible to the 
wayfaring mind. The long climb up the 
height to Acro-Corinth, through a wilder- 

67 



Lands of Summer 

ness of mediaeval fortification, is a glorious 
adventure, promoted in our case by a bright 
boy and girl, who served not only as guides, 
but also as painstaking instructors in the 
niceties of modern Greek. The remnants of 
the Acropolis upon the summit are scanty ; 
but the panoramic view of the two gulfs, 
divided by their sandy isthmus, of shore and 
plain and mountain heaped on mountain, 
displays these natural wonders with a prod- 
igality that nowhere else seems possible. 
Here is the heart of Greece; the pilgrim's 
goal since time was, and men stood here to 
reckon it. 

The next morning we went on by rail 
over the mountain-pass, down into the plain 
of Argolis, — a picturesque journey of two 
hours. At the little way-station of Mykenae 
our carriage stood ready, and we drove in it 
diagonally across the plain to that " inner- 
most corner of Argos " chosen by the Atridae 
for their stronghold. At the entrance of 
a narrow defile, where two ravines open 

68 



From Athens to Corfu 

into gloomy mountain solitudes, is the tri- 
angle of lofty table-land crowned by their 
citadel, which must have seemed to them 
impregnable. Yet more than thirty centu- 
ries ago it lay conquered and despoiled, — 
a stone-heap at the beginning of authentic 
history, through all the later ages neglected, 
forgotten ; until, in our own day, Schliemann 
unearthed its golden treasure, traditional 
with Homer. The Cyclopean walls, the 
royal tombs, the dim sepulchral monument 
known as the Treasury of Atreus, the som- 
bre lion-gate, set in the dreary splendor of 
the mountain-fastness, impress the mind 
profoundly. Our uncouth shepherd-guide, 
incomprehensible in speech, seemed leading 
us beyond the world of men to some un- 
earthly limbo of which he was the grim, 
mysterious keeper. The shades of Agamem- 
non and Clytemnestra lurked in the wind- 
swept palace chambers. They live to stir 
the memory, and all else at lonely Mykenae 
is lost to recognition. 

^9 



Lands of Summer . 

We lunched under the gate of lions, a 
stone's throw from the rifled graves, which, at 
last, have yielded up their gems and diadems, 
their masks and swords, their buried beak- 
ers. But who made, who wore them ? What 
kingly line was this of all the thousand gen- 
erations, whose deeds have no existence, 
whose very names went unrecorded ? These 
are secrets the grave will not give up, fast 
bound, to all eternity, in elemental silence. 

Lonely Mykenae ! Its inscrutable deso- 
lation haunted us all the afternoon, as we 
drove for nine miles over the Argive plain 
between the mountains to Nauplia and the 
sea. Our way led through Argos, where we 
halted for its ancient theatre, hewn from 
solid rock. On a stone threshing-floor near 
by it, four white horses tramped abreast, 
treading out the grain. Beyond the modern 
town we turned into fertile country steeped 
in sunshine, and, crossing the plain to its 
eastern border, stopped at Mykenae's sister- 
city, Tiryns, the " wall-girt.'' Here are pre- 

70 



From Athens to Corfu 

historic fragments on a Titanic scale, — 
courts, chambers, altars, and stone galleries 
of marvellous constructive skill ; but from 
their open site, hardly more than thirty feet 
above the flowering meadows, they lack the 
awful solemnity of Mykenae. With Argos 
in sight and Nauplia at its very gate, Ti- 
ryns has lost the effect of loneliness; the 
ghosts must have given out in desperation 
long ago. 

As the sun was setting, we came into 
Nauplia, a bright, airy city built under for- 
tified heights at the head of a gulf, round 
which the mountains meet the sea. Wide 
quays open on the port and land-locked 
harbor, where a steamer lay at anchor. We 
made a circuit of the promenade to watch 
the sun go down across the water, behind 
Argos and its citadel. Northward, we looked 
the plain's whole length, as far as distant 
Mykenae, over which a storm-cloud gath- 
ered. In the deepening twilight the cloud 
grew denser, cutting it off from view. And 

71 



Lands of Summer 

darkness stirred in us a chill suggestion of 
the ruined palace under that impenetrable 
gloom. 

The drive of more than three hours from 
Nauplia to Epidauros is called in the books 
a dull one. Our road, it is true, wound 
through a sparsely settled valley between 
rocky, unfruitful mountain-pastures. Yet 
there was exhilaration in the air; the views 
were strange, unspoiled, entirely Greek; so 
that the long morning was soon gone. Half- 
way, we stopped at a farmhouse to water 
our horses. The dogs were driving a flock 
of sheep out of the fold ; the farmer and his 
two small children turned from their tasks 
to greet us, so agreeably that we plunged at 
once into conversation with every broken 
phrase at our command. The man was 
called " Athanasios;" the boy, "Mercu- 
rios;'' the girl, "Selene;" fine names, these, 
for that rude dwelling. At parting they 
showered upon us many a good wish. We 
drove on across a rushing river, around 

72 



From Athens to Corfu 

the base of a high hill, where perches the 
populous village of Ligourio. The valley 
narrowed, and widened again into a level 
plain, all strewn with ruins. Column and 
capital sprouted there, as if the armed men 
sprung from the dragon's teeth of Cadmus, 
rising once more, had turned to stone. This 
was the Hieron of Epidauros, famous of old 
for its ^Esculapian Sanctuary, and in our day 
for the finest ancient theatre yet discovered. 
We had the whole place to ourselves; 
and, having brought luncheon, disposed of it 
unattended in an open pavilion, fronting the 
theatre, which, unlike that of Argos, was 
not hewn from the rock. It is a masterpiece 
of construction, built at the best period, on 
a grand scale, with stone seats rising tier on 
tier in the hollow of a hill. These seats are 
still in excellent condition, while the acoustic 
properties are so remarkable that probably 
no visitor neglects to prove them. In the 
upper row, two hundred feet from the or- 
chestra and seventy-five feet above it, a 

73 



Lands of Summer 

line spoken upon the stage in moderate 
tones may be heard distinctly. The altar is 
standing ; the exits and entrances can still 
be traced ; and, at the wings, on either side 
is a steep inclined plane, for the raising of 
heavy stage machinery. 

After devoting two hours to the theatre, 
the museum, and the extensive ruins of the 
Sanctuary, we retraced our road, overtaken 
by showers, which, happily, were short. By 
the time we reached Nauplia, the skies had 
cleared. From the end of the esplanade 
we followed a footpath out of the town, 
round and up the rock, to a small chapel 
on a grass-grown terrace high over the 
bay. There was no wind ; the mountains 
were mirrored in the quiet harbor, and the 
changing sunset colors merged in the deep 
blue of the quiet sea. The Bay of Nauplia 
lay before us at its best. No landscape can 
be lovelier than this, in such conditions. 

Early the next morning we started on our 
day's journey by rail, via Corinth, to Athens. 

74 



From Athens to Corfu 

Waiting at the Nauplia station stood a hand- 
some, elderly man, evidently of the higher 
class, in national dress of the most resplen- 
dent kind ; literally, all purple and fine linen. 
His plaited skirt — the fustanella — was 
immaculate; his jacket, cap, and girdle were 
strong in color and of rich material, yet 
worn without consciousness of display. His 
dignity and well-bred air of distinction con- 
firmed the statement, maintained by good 
observers, that the older generation disap- 
proves of the modern change to conven- 
tional European costume, which has become 
prevalent in Athens. A few years ago he 
would not have been an exceptional figure ; 
a few years hence all his splendors will be 
forgotten. Steam and electricity have done 
their work. One nation, sooner or later, 
must look exactly like another. Any varia- 
tion, whether traditional or not, is eccentric; 
and eccentricity is out of fashion. 

Our local train left us stranded at Argos, 
where we took a slow express along the 

75 



Lands of Summer 

plain, up into the mountains and over the 
high pass. There we encountered a wild 
storm, exciting in its variety. The wind 
howled, the lightning flashed, the thunder 
rattled, hail-stones beat upon the windows, 
and through their sashes pelting rain streamed 
in; the car-roof, likewise, leaked like paper. 
We changed again at Corinth, coming out 
upon the isthmus and crossing the canal 
to the northern shore of the Saronic Gulf, 
which, thenceforward, we followed, some- 
times at the water's edge, sometimes far 
above it, by Salamis, through Megara to 
Eleusis. Then, turning inland and making 
a wide detour, we came, at last, to town. 
The streets of Athens were deep in semi- 
liquid mud, after the usual shov^er, a little 
more violent than usual, early in the day. 

Ill 

Our Athenian hours were numbered. 
When the weather permitted we revisited 

76 



From Athens to Corfu 

favorite haunts, and made several short ex- 
cursions beyond the gates, guided thereto 
by certain friendly citizens of Athens to 
whom we had brought letters. One of these 
expeditions was to the king's summer pal- 
ace at Tatoi, on a slope of Mount Parnes. 
The drive is wild and beautiful, through a 
forest of pines, with superb mountain views. 
On our return, as we came down into the 
wilderness, our grave coachman suddenly 
became excited over something he had seen 
at the roadside. He turned to us gesticu- 
lating and pointing back, repeating many 
times a single word, — " Alopou." Since we 
could not grasp its meaning, he shouted it 
louder and louder, much distressed; then, 
putting his hands to his head, he wagged 
them back and forth, as if to indicate long 
ears. "Oh! a rabbit!" we cried sympatheti- 
cally, and he was entirely content. But, at 
dinner, that night, we asked one of the ser- 
vants, who spoke English perfectly, what 
"alopou" really meant; and were informed 

77 



Lands of Summer 

that we had started up not a rabbit, but a 
fox! The moral of this seems to conflict 
with the familiar proverb. Even a little 
learning is less dangerous than none at all. 
The site of Plato's Grove of Academe is 
still open to the air and sunlight. There, 
too, olive trees still grow, and we longed to 
walk among them. It lies out in the plain, 
westward of the city, beyond an old Botanic 
Garden, full of birds and bees, which is all 
the better for its air of luxuriant neglect. 
The walk to the classic shade through an 
ugly modern suburb that knows no care, is 
long and painful. It is disappointing to come 
out, at last, merely upon pathless, ploughed 
fields. These, however, are redeemed by 
scores of olives, really old. Through their 
twisted branches gleam fine, distant glimpses 
of the Acropolis; and the largest is known as 
"Plato's Tree," — a tribute of courtesy. The 
walk back by another road was better. The 
sun set in the clearest of skies, irradiating 
Mount Hymettos, as we turned toward it, 

78 



From Athens to Corfu 

with the purple glow peculiar to itself, — the 
same whereon the eyes of Socrates looked 
their last. Never had we seen it to such 
advantage. It is not an afterglow, but a 
brief foreboding of the end. The sun sank 
behind the western hills, and, immediately, 
the effect vanished, leaving Hymettos, like 
the rest, stern, gray, and cold. 

Our last day at Athens was marked by 
a humorous adventure, emphasizing once 
more the recurrence of the unexpected. We 
had described to our hospitable friends the 
delightful hour passed at the spring of Ma- 
rousi early in our stay. ^^Ah!'' they said; 
" but have you seen the spring of Kephi- 
sia?" — "No."— "Then go there, by all 
means; it is the most enchanting spot we 
know." Accordingly, we went, — by train, 
to save time, — finding Kephisia a fashion- 
able summer resort with ornamental park- 
ways and elaborate villas, set in formal gar- 
dens. We lunched at its chief hotel in the 
shade of a giant plane tree; then drove out 

79 



Lands of Summer 

to the spring, developing, on the way, a 
queer sense of familiarity ; it was as if we had 
seen all this before in some former state, or 
in a dream. The mystery deepened with our 
approach, but, upon arrival, cleared away in 
a moment. Here were the ducks, the pine 
trees, the brimming basin of our earlier visit. 
The spring, flowing between two villages, 
was, to our coachman, the spring of Ma- 
rousi, — to our good Athenians, the spring of 
Kephisia. We were not sorry for the misun- 
derstanding that brought us there a second 
time; but we greeted the source of the dual 
name as an old acquaintance, not a new one. 
The next morning we saw the last of the 
Acropolis from the train on the way to Pa- 
tras, — a journey of nearly eight hours, the 
first three of which covered that route along 
the Saronic Gulf to Corinth, already trav- 
ersed by us in the opposite direction. After 
Corinth, all was new. The road follows the 
Corinthian Gulf by its southern shore, from 
which we looked across the blue waves to 

80 



From Athens to Corfu 

Helicon and Parnassos, up the bay of Itea 
to the white gleam of Delphi. Farther on, 
the gulf narrows gradually to a strait, — a 
crescent of water between high mountain- 
walls, whose wild gorges opened southward 
near at hand, as the train passed. Then we 
came out upon the broad Gulf of Patras, 
and, turning, saw, across the water, the fine, 
detached peak of Varassova. The clouds 
about its head played strange freaks with the 
brilliant sunset, making it seem threefold. 
Under this mountain stands the small town 
of Missolonghi, where Byron died. Oppo- 
site, on the eastern shore, is the modern, 
provincial city of Patras, which we reached 
while the fantastic sunset was still in pro- 
gress. From the balcony of our hotel, over- 
looking the water, we watched to the end 
an effect unparalleled in our remembrance ; 
and, reviewing the day's experience, agreed 
that the traveller's conclusion which pro- 
claims it the finest railway journey in the 
world was probably just. 

8i 



Lands of Summer 

From Patras to Olympia is a run of more 
than five hours by rail. We made it early 
the next day, which, opening well, gave us 
fine views of the Ionian Sea and the islands 
of Cephalonia, Zante, and Ithaca. But the 
treacherous sky grew dark with heavy clouds, 
and we ran into a furious thunder-storm. 
The rain stopped considerately at the mo- 
ment of arrival, about noon, but only to 
recur with provoking and enduring vio- 
lence. Our afternoon, therefore, was given 
to the small museum, near which we lodged. 
Out of Athens, this has no rival except the 
museum of Delphi; and in popular favor 
it surpasses that, from the fame of its chief 
treasure, the Hermes of Praxiteles, — an 
antique almost as well known as the Venus 
of Melos by reproductions, conveying form 
without texture. The inevitable shortcoming 
is especially apparent in this case. For the 
Parian marble is of exceptional lustrous 
beauty, and its surface is so highly finished 
that it seems ready to yield at a touch, like 

82 



From Athens to Corfu 

wax. The statue has a room of honor to 
itself, yet, strange to say, it is badly lighted. 
The restoration of the legs, also, is a posi- 
tive disadvantage. Involuntarily, we recalled 
the exclamation of disgust from the Italian 
care-taker, Chico, at the Boston Museum 
of Fine Arts, upon seeing the Hermes thus 
made over in a newly imported cast. "£ te- 
descoV he cried indignantly, and turned 
away. German and deplorable that modern 
extension most certainly is ; one longs for 
Thor's hammer to knock away at one blow 
the impertinent underpinning. 

The main hall of the museum corre- 
sponds in length to the breadth of the Tem- 
ple of Zeus, of which the fragmentary ped- 
iment-groups, spread out to their full extent, 
completely fill the two sides. Their position 
is lower than that they were designed to 
hold, so that the original effect is lost. They 
are much too near the eye ; yet there is 
compensation in the opportunity thus given 
for close study. The shattered Victory, that 

83 



Lands of Summer 

once stood before the temple, suffers and 
gains from the same cause. The hall, ad- 
mirably lighted, affords abundant space for 
each object. Everything there is a master- 
piece in its kind ; and the first impression 
of serene splendor is never counteracted. 
One lingers long in it, leaving it reluctantly, 
to return again and again. 

The museum is the last expression of 
Olympiads glory. The courts, the temples, 
the stadium, the treasuries, the colonnades 
inclosing the festal square, were levelled by 
earthquake long ago. Immense capitals and 
broken shafts lie where they fell, cumbering 
the ground, half buried in strange wild- 
flowers; the foundations, to be sure, are 
there in place; but there, more than any- 
where else, it is an irritation to conjure up 
the superstructure by an effort of the mind. 
The usual way of approaching Greece, un- 
doubtedly, is the best. One should land at 
Patras, and see Olympia first. Though dis- 
figured by modern buildings, the surround- 

84 



From Athens to Corfu 

ing country is still beautiful; yet lacking 
natural grandeur and man's adornment of 
the finest period, after Nauplia, Delphi, and 
Athens it is tame. 

Returning the next afternoon, we em- 
barked at Patras, that same night, for the 
island of Corfu. The city glowed with mel- 
low light, as we rounded the end of its long 
pier, steaming outward into calm waters. 
And our easy voyage of twelve hours was 
cheered by the thought that we had estab- 
lished relations with Greece, freely, if some- 
what erratically, without the intervention 
and the incubus j)f a dragoman. 

IV 

Corfu, the largest of the Ionian islands, 
lies less than two miles from the mainland 
of Epirus. It is thirty-five miles long, and 
in shape roughly resembles a dolphin, whose 
huge head, stretching northward, is seven- 
teen miles in width. Its history may be 

85 



Lands of Summer 

summed up as one of strange vicissitude. 
Originally Greek, it passed to the Romans, 
and was held by them and their descend- 
ants through many centuries. Then, ruled 
intermittently by French, Turks, and Rus- 
sians, it fell in the nineteenth century to the 
Enghsh, who governed it for nearly fifty 
years. Now, returned to its rightful owners, 
it has been incorporated into the kingdom 
of Greece. The capital, also called Corfu, is 
a compact, fortified city on the inner coast, 
about midway of the island, — as it were, 
under the dolphin's dorsal fin. Redeemed 
from absolute stagnation only by its garri- 
son, it is a dull, dead-and-alive place, upon 
which varied foreign interests have set their 
mark. Certain of its streets and squares and 
its chief hotel, the St. George, suggest pro- 
vincial England. Other quarters have come 
straight from Italy; one hears Italian spoken 
on all sides. Its resources are few; there is 
no art worth mentioning, and its citizens 
amuse themselves but sadly. It fronts the 

86 



From Athens to Corfu 

sea, yet that seems curiously remote. The 
port, shielded by a protecting mole, is nar- 
row and contracted. A wide, unfrequented 
esplanade follows for a mile the line of the 
shore, on which no surf ever beats. Slug- 
gish, unnavigable waters make off from it 
indefinitely, choked with seaweed, giving 
town and environment a depressing air of 
isolation, that recalls the line of "Julius 
Caesar," — "bound in shallows and in mis- 
eries." One longs for activity on that far- 
spreading, glassy surface, for a sail that shall 
not be distant ; but it never comes. 

The charms of Corfu, however, are many 
and invincible, unfolding themselves in 
quick succession the moment one leaves 
the precincts of the town. Throughout the 
island, the roads, established by the British, 
are well kept up. They lead on in all direc- 
tions between hedges of cactus and aloe to 
neat, unspoiled villages, gay with peasant- 
costumes of great variety, — for each vil- 
lage is distinguishable by its own peculiar 

87 



Lands of Summer 

dress. Olive groves are everywhere; not the 
clipped, dwarfed olive of other lands, but 
the olive given its full scope, growing to 
the dimensions of a forest tree, sometimes 
sixty feet in height. They are the finest 
olive trees in the world, and they flourish in 
reckless luxuriance, numbering about four 
million, according to the official estimate. 
The villas of King George and the late 
Empress of Austria — the latter recently 
acquired by the German Emperor — are 
splendid show-places, with glowing gardens 
and marble terraces on wooded heights 
above the inland sea. Between them stands 
"One Gun Battery," upon a high point 
overlooking a world-renowned view of the 
eastern coast. A small, detached rock in 
the foreground has been named the Ship 
of Ulysses. Near by it is the spot where the 
royal adventurer, in his Odyssey, was cast 
ashore, for his unconventional encounter 
with the Princess Nausicaa. 

The northern end of the island — the dol- 

88 



From Athens to Corfu 

phin's head — is wild and mountainous. 
Our longest excursion led us that way to 
the monastery of Palaeokastrizza — a drive 
of more than three hours from town. The 
secluded retreat is perched upon a promon- 
tory jutting out into the open sea; and its 
cloisters overhang precipitous shores, deeply 
indented, backed by the frowning peak of 
Mount Ercole on the north. Ruined castles 
stand high on the red cliffs, which, below, 
are scored with caverns; and they curve 
around inaccessible bits of yellow beach, 
where long rollers break from the vivid blue 
into sheets of foam. Looking out upon this 
prospect, we lingered in court and garden 
under flowering pergolas, to gossip with the 
genial monks while our horses rested; then, 
in the late afternoon, we took to the road 
again, meeting troops of shy, wondering 
peasants on their way home from a day's 
work in the fields. 

Following a pleasant Corfiote custom, 
we had brought dinner with us; and, just at 

89 



Lands of Summer 

twilight, we established ourselves in an olive 
grove to eat it comfortably. The host of a 
small wayside inn, near by, aided us most 
amiably in this, bringing chairs and a table, 
which he spread under one of the gigantic 
trees. He hung a lantern overhead, and 
served most excellent coffee after dinner. It 
was a warm June evening, with no sign of 
dampness. Innumerable fireflies glanced 
about, and in the treetops owls hooted dis- 
tantly. The full moon rose, flinging won- 
drous shadows far and wide. By its clear 
light we drove on, along a beach, opposite 
the Turkish coast, which at that hour 
loomed very near; starting up, at intervals, 
detachments of the coast-guard on the look- 
out for smugglers, who ply their evasive 
trade successfully, in spite of the active pa- 
trol. The villages were silent, barred and 
shuttered for the night, with only an occa- 
sional gleam from some belated cafe. But 
the town, when we entered it at half-past 
ten, was still wide awake, stirring about the 

90 



From Athens to Corfu 

booths of an open-air market in one of the 
principal thoroughfares. 

This was our last and best experience. 
The next morning came a scirocco, which 
held until our departure, a day or two later. 
We sailed in the afternoon, touching that 
night at the cheerless port of Santiqua- 
ranta on the Turkish shore; and, at day- 
break, landing at Brindisi, were instantly in 
touch once more with the bustling Western 
World. 



Midsummer in 

Tuscany 




Midsummer in 

Tuscany 

I 

There is fashion in foreign travel, 
as in all conventional phases of modern life; 
and, following it, hordes of travellers mi- 
grate northward from Italy the moment 
that summer-heat begins, by overcrowding 
Switzerland, the Tyrol, and other continen- 
tal high places to deprive them of half their 

95 



Lands of Summer 

charm. Thus it happens that real lovers of 
Italy, who, knowing the land well already, 
long to know it still better, now find the 
times before and after the so-called season 
much the best for their enjoyment. In Tus- 
cany, no time is to be avoided by the truly 
discreet, apart from that same ^^ season" it- 
self, except, perhaps, the late autumn and 
early winter. Then, the days shorten with 
provoking swiftness, the chilly nights grow 
correspondingly long. One does not, from 
choice, seek a sunny clime to settle down 
for the evening over guidebooks in a musty 
inn-parlor, at three of the afternoon. 

At all other periods of the year, the Tus- 
can life passes chiefly out-of-doors. There 
is the place to turn acquaintance with it into 
friendship, to become part and parcel of it, 
by doing as the Tuscans do. In apprehen- 
sive moments, when the sun-god, poised 
directly overhead, has put on all his splen- 
dors which blaze with withering potency, to 
dash into the throng and be swept away 

96 



Midsum?7ter in Tuscany 

by it may seem, after all, the wisest course ; 
but the blighting tourist and his cut-and- 
dried table d'hote are common things, easily 
attainable. For choice Italian and fonduta 
con tartufi^ under a vine-clad pergola, there 
must be concessions. 

In Florence, at the end of June, we had 
outstayed the last lingering strangers. The 
Lungarno was deserted, and our hotel, near 
the Ponte Vecchio, remained open only to 
us and the barbaric tribes of personally- 
conducted excursionists, — "caravans," the 
Italians call them, — that descended upon 
it, at irregular intervals, for twenty-four 
hours of rush and repentance. The siesta 
prolonged itself indefinitely in the broiling 
afternoons. Our Florentine friends, to be 
sure, said that the heat had not yet begun; 
for their part, they meant to stay on in town 
a whole week longer; but they had a lovely 
garden, with green alleys and shaded nooks, 
framed for repose, — and we had not. 

Dining with them one night, under their 

97 



Lands of Summer 

ilexes and magnolias, we announced our 
intention of taking refuge, the next day, in 
the upper air of the Casentino valley, near 
the Arno's headwaters. Thereupon, the ex- 
pression of approving envy was unanimous. 
All knew the favored region well; all spoke 
of it at once, in general terms of rapture. 
When we tried pinning them down to de- 
tails in the way of helpful guidance, except 
for unqualified admiration of Camaldoli, no 
two opinions were alike. Having ample 
time at our disposal, we wanted to go every- 
where and see everything. What was the 
best method of approach? we asked. Where 
were the best inns? Above all, which point 
was best fitted to serve as headquarters for 
daily excursions? 

An animated discussion followed, and 
continued until a late hour; but we came 
out of it into the dark streets more in the 
dark than ever, after many minute direc- 
tions, tangled inextricably in a confusion of 
names, of which we were entirely ignorant. 

98 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

One had insisted upon our going east; 
another, south. As to inns, there was an 
excellent one at Camaldoli. We had really 
retained only one important fact, viz.: that 
none of the party had journeyed into the 
Casentino for at least ten years. As to pre- 
sent conditions there, they knew rather less 
than we knew ourselves. We returned to 
the hotel and its guidebooks, all pleasantly 
vague and aggravatingly brief concerning 
our destination; and, finally, we determined 
to be guided solely by innate intelligence, 
making our own mistakes and correcting 
them, or not, as circumstance permitted. 

We set forth, late in the afternoon, upon 
a middle course of our own selection, go- 
ing neither east nor south, but southeast 
to Arezzo, at the lower end of the valley. 
Laughing Arezzo, the home of Petrarch 
and Vasari, with its clear fountains, fine 
churches, streets of stairs, and grassy hilltop, 
is the gayest of provincial Tuscan cities. 
We knew it well, however, from a former 

99 



Lands of Summer 

visit ; and as it now seemed hotter even than 
Florence, if such a thing were possible, we 
changed at once into a narrow-gauge train 
for Stia, at the valley's head ; on our upward 
way deliberately passing by with a glance 
Bibbiena, Poppi, and other recognized 
halting-places. Among these, we liked best 
the aspect of Poppi, which stands on a hill 
in the middle of the valley, its houses clus- 
tering about a high-shouldered mediaeval 
castle. As the station is a mile away from 
it, we had a good view of the town, and 
began to wonder if we might not go farther 
and fare worse ; yet the guidebook gave us 
no encouragement ; it barely mentioned 
the inn at Poppi, while that of Stia was 
strongly recommended. On the platform, 
watching the train go by, were five pretty 
girls, whose demeanor and dress suggested 
a high state of civilization. Surely, a good 
hotel must exist where such as these were to 
be found ; but it was now too late to get off, 
and the train went on, taking us with it. 

lOO 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

At the next station occurred one of those 
long, inexplicable delays, so familiar to the 
traveller in Italy. The sun went down, and 
twilight settled over the cool, green valley, 
shut in by wooded heights. Vaguely, toward 
the north, we distinguished the lofty peak 
of Falterona, in a gorge of which the Arno 
rises. At last we started up again, passing 
slowly through Pratovecchio, under the castle 
of Romena, one of Dante's refuges, near 
whose crumbling walls once flowed his spring 
of Fonte Branda, now extinct. Then, at nine 
o'clock, we reached the terminus of Stia,and 
drove on in the dark through the shadowy 
town, up a hill, to our hotel at the end of 
a long, curving piazza, the Borgo Maestro. 
The place, unquestionably, was primitive. 
Our welcoming host and hostess, with their 
daughter, did the honors and the service too. 
Their macaroni and Chianti wine were of 
the right sort, however, and our chamber 
window looked down a narrow street to a 
bridge over the river which murmured 

lOI 



hands of Summer 

pleasantly through the dark arches. Beyond 
we caught a glimpse of a hillside^ dotted 
with farmhouses, straggling up towards the 
stars. The prospect, if limited, had some 
promise in it. We went to bed, tired and 
doubtful, yet not without hope. 

The next day our hope gradually dwin- 
dled almost to the vanishing-point. The inn, 
whither the finger of authority had directed 
us, was intolerably stuffy and comfortless. We 
fled from it at once, out-of-doors. There the 
town, rude, confined, and architecturally un- 
interesting, lay deep in a hollow of the hills 
which excluded every breath of air. The sun 
flamed piteously in an unclouded sky ; and 
we turned our slow, languid steps away from 
stone walls and pavements, without the town, 
to a grassy slope by the river, where, under 
the shade of an oak, we sank down exhausted. 
The air had no life ; even here the heat was 
indescribably oppressive, but, so long as we 
sat in the shade, we could endure it ; and, 
except for brief intervals at meal-times, there 

I02 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

we sat all day, clinging to the shadow in its 
course. 

On all sides were delightful things. We 
looked down the valley toward Arezzo, up 
it to the rough sides of Mount Falterona. 
White roads, intersected by grass-grown 
paths, wound over the hills, suggesting pleas- 
ant walks in other conditions of tempera- 
ture. At our feet the Arno rushed along its 
rocky bed, broadening, a few yards off, into a 
pool overshadowed by a huge boulder, — an 
ideal swimming-place, where men and boys 
of the town disported themselves continu- 
ously. They were hidden from sight by the 
rock, but we could hear them shouting and 
splashing as we whiled away the desperate 
hours over our books. Slowly, very slowly, 
with no abatement in relentless fervor, the 
sun declined ; yet at six o'clock the heat 
seemed to increase rather than to diminish. 
Not until after seven, when the last ray was 
quenched, could we venture out to explore 
a river-path that lured us for a mile or two 

103 



Lands of Summer 

up into a tangled wilderness, now at the wa- 
ter's level, now high up on the bank. Then, 
overtaken by darkness, we came back to the 
valley and the town. All, now, was life and 
movement; so deliciously cool that, once 
more, we half believed in Stia, and decided 
to trust it for another day. 

Our second day, however, was a tiresome 
duplicate of the first. An intermittent breeze 
in the early hours made it possible to 
change our position, and go farther afield, 
but as a mere search for the deepest shade 
reduced energy to its lowest terms, no 
attempt at exploration could be even con- 
sidered; our day-dreams were bounded by 
coolness and tranquillity. When the sun 
went down, ambition revived. We walked 
as far as Pratovecchio ; then, crossing the 
river, climbed the heights of the farther 
shore, to turn back through the open coun- 
try in the waning light. There were stone 
farmhouses, with walled stable-yards ; trib- 
utary torrents hurried to the Arno, under 

104 



Midsummer in 'Tuscany 

broad acres of chestnut forest extending 
down the slopes to Stia's roofs and bridges. 
The whole walk was happily and beautifully 
Tuscan, but its charms did not delude us. 
We had given Stia a fair trial, and found it 
wanting. The important thing, now, was to 
try elsewhere. 

Early the next morning, in a renewal of 
the intense heat, we parted company with our 
friendly host and his family. On their side 
the parting was a sad one; evidently, they 
had counted upon us for a longer stay. We 
took the train to Poppi, — a run of twenty 
minutes only, — meaning to lunch there, 
see the castle, alid go on. At Poppi station 
we were met, first, by a refreshing breeze, 
that seemed suddenly let loose in the open 
valley ; next, by a light-hearted cabman, who 
immediately befriended us. "The new inn 
has a fine position, — will you go there?" 
he asked. We accepted the suggestion, and 
inquired if the inn were much frequented. 
" I should think so!'' said he; "it is nearly 

105 



Lands of Summer 

always crowded, — though, just now, you 
will, perhaps, find room." As we slowly as- 
cended, he pointed out important features 
of the landscape, which opened up on all 
sides. There were the craggy peaks of La 
Verna ; the town below, a little to the south, 
was Bibbiena; Camaldoli lay out of sight, 
beyond the bare, brown ridge on the north- 
east, two hours away. So, always mounting 
higher, we made half the circuit of the town 
walls, to enter at its western gate; climbing 
on within, through well-paved, airy streets, 
by churches, domed and porticoed. One of 
these fronted a small square, built around 
a central fountain. There were busy shops 
and crowded arcades; all had an air of thrift; 
the people turned toward us friendly, hos- 
pitable faces. 

Our way led beyond the fountain, up a 
steeper incline than any we had passed. At 
the end of it we made a sharp turn to the 
right, and came out upon a broad, terraced 
plateau, shaded with lime trees, command- 

io6 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

ing at various points uninterrupted views 
of the valley. One end was closed in by the 
old castle and its tower ; at the other a gate 
opened upon the garden of the new inn. 

The cool breeze rustled in the limes. 
High above them the castle-bells chimed the 
hour. We looked at each other in silent 
wonder, with all plans for going on, that 
day, cancelled upon the instant; here, in 
the Casentino as we had hoped to find it, 
already beginning to doubt if we could ever 
cheerfully go on. 

The doubt became a certainty as the day 
proceeded. Our inn, which bore the name 
of the Conti Guidi, who were once lords of 
the castle, was comfortable in its appoint- 
ments, exquisitely clean ; its food, wine, and 
service left nothing to be desired. Since 
our arrival was at least three weeks in ad- 
vance of the season, we had no difficulty in 
finding room, according to the cabman's 
word, — in fact, we were for the moment its 
only visitors, free to choose the quarters 

107 



Lands of Summer 

that pleased us best, overlooking the garden 
and the castle-tower. On that side, the 
house was low and unpretentious; on the 
other, it sprang into many stories directly 
from the fountain-square. The windows of 
its pleasant reading-room were almost on a 
level with the opposite church-dome, beyond 
which they looked out over the valley; 
while, from the square below, an arcaded 
street curved down the hill. The town has 
slight architectural importance; but the gen- 
eral effect is good, and no modern disfigure- 
ment mars its simple individuality. 

The glory of Poppi is the castle, built in 
the thirteenth century by Arnolfo di Cam- 
bio, architect of the Palazzo Vecchio at 
Florence, to which, outwardly, it bears a 
strong resemblance. The inner court, with 
its stone staircase, is more suggestive of 
another Florentine fortress, the Bargello ; 
though the suggestion does not go very 
far, for the staircase at Poppi, the earlier of 
the two by half a century, has distinction 

io8 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

peculiarly its own. On one of its upper 
landings is a small fresco of Dante and 
Beatrice, commemorating the poet's visit. 
Other important frescoes, attributed to Spi- 
nello Aretino, adorn the chapel, to which 
one passes through a long series of deco- 
rated halls and chambers, some in good 
condition, some dilapidated. The latter are 
undergoing a process of restoration, care- 
fully considered, by no means overdone; 
and enough of the original work remains to 
make the building, as it stands, a splendid 
monument of its time. 

We devoted our morning to the castle ; 
our afternoon to a thorough inspection of 
the town, within and without. The strong 
breeze continued, freshening at times to 
a gale, which brought occasional showers. 
Early in the afternoon walk we came upon 
the five maidens whom we had seen at the 
station, now decorously taking the air under 
the guidance of a duenna. In after days we 
often met them thus defended. Even in that 

109 



Lands of Summer 

quiet corner of the land they never went 
out alone. We heard that they were the 
daughters of a distinguished citizen; but we 
failed to discover his name, and did not iden- 
tify his house. His children, as peripatetic 
landmarks, grew familiar. We called them, 
between ourselves, the five sisters of Poppi, 
— using the phrase lightly, yet respectfully, 
in accordance with their grave propriety, 
so watched and governed. Unprofaned by 
modern progress, they seemed pathetically 
appropriate to the place in their enforced 
seclusion. 

Poppi had gained our confidence, which 
developed into strong aiFection. We made 
it our resting-place, our home in the Casen- 
tino, leaving it for days together, but always 
returning to it with joy. There was no more 
discomfort from heat anywhere. We shook 
our fists at distant Stia, deprecating treach- 
erous guidebooks, repenting our own virtue 
of patience that had put up with it so long. 

That night, after dinner, we combined 

no 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

with our landlord in engaging a vetturino 
to take charge of our longer expeditions. 
His looks promised well ; so did his name, 
which was Angelo. He proved, indeed, to 
be an angel among vetturini, — competent, 
intelligent, moderate in his demands, strictly 
honest, and careful of his horses. Unusually 
silent, reserved, even, for a Tuscan, he could 
speak to the point upon occasion. He dig- 
nified his office. Our remembrance of the 
long, bright days that followed is associated 
always with his fidelity. 

There are delightful walks about Poppi, 
in the valley and over the nearer hills. On 
one of these, in a dense grove, stands an 
old Jesuit monastery, the white walls con- 
trasting with the dark foliage to make it 
conspicuous for miles. The place is used as 
a summer retreat for dignitaries of the order ; 
but since none of these happened to be pre- 
sent, the gate opened for our admission to 
the innermost depths of the thicket, which 
otherwise would have proved impenetrable. 

Ill 



Lands of Summer 

Through the chestnut woods of other hill- 
sides we could stroll at pleasure. Once, how- 
ever, we came to a wall with a sign upon it, 
warning off trespassers ; but the way opened 
up invitingly ; the gate stood open too, and, 
disregarding the sign, we walked on, — not 
without misgiving, — when, at a turn of the 
road, we saw a house, which, plainly, was 
inhabited. None the less, we lingered there 
in the twilight to watch the rising moon. 
Then, suddenly, at our backs, we heard 
voices; a dog burst out upon us from the 
underbrush; behind him, drawing nearer, we 
caught a sound that seemed the gentle tread 
of many feet. It was an awkward moment. 
How, taken thus red-handed, should we 
explain our intrusion to the approaching 
family group? What if the five sisters of 
Poppi dwelt here, and those light footsteps 
were their own, on the home-stretch of the 
daily promenade! Would the duenna accept 
our special pleading? We started up in hu- 
miliating confusion, to face only a drove of 

112 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

hogs urged forward against their will by two 
small peasant-boys, who must have been 
perplexed by the laughter in which our 
anxiety found relief. We escaped, unchal- 
lenged, scot-free; and taking to heart the 
wholesome lesson, we refrained from further 
trespass. 

Our first long excursion was to the an- 
cient abbey of Camaldoli, by a steep road 
over a treeless spur of the Apennines, be- 
tween La Verna and Falterona. The hori- 
zon widened in all directions as we left the 
valley; then the valley was shut out, and at 
the bottom of a deep, barren ravine which 
the road skirted, we saw the little town of 
Maggiona, a bright spot amid gray, volcanic 
devastation. As we went higher, all grew 
wilder and rougher; but at the top of the 
ridge we looked off upon wooded moun- 
tain-ranges, across another valley, into which 
a stream dashed from the heights through 
acres of forest-trees. We followed it up, 
until, on its bank, at the edge of a pine 

113 



Lands of Summer 

forest near the valley's head, we came to the 
monastic buildings, standing there alone in 
one huge pile, bound together by a series 
of courts and cloisters. 

The monastery, twenty-seven hundred 
feet above sea-level, was founded by Saint 
Romualdo in the eleventh century. The 
present buildings, designed by Vasari, re- 
place the older structure, which had with- 
stood many sieges to be ruined at last by 
fire and rapine. The strangers' quarters have 
been converted into a " Grand Hotel," the 
summer refuge of diplomats, native and for- 
eign. Their season had hardly begun; but 
every day brought detachments of the ad- 
vance guard, clothed in conventionality, to 
give the vaulted rooms and corridors of 
the historic house a formal air, contrasting 
strangely with the cloistered simplicity on 
the other side of the wall. The high-bred 
visitors never strayed far into the forest, 
where nearly all our waking hours were 
spent. Its paths are many; but our favorite 

114 



Midsummer i?i Tuscany 

walks were those along its most beautiful 
of mountain torrents, remarkable for the 
volume of water, broken by moss-covered 
boulders into innumerable cascades. To sit 
by one of these and watch it leap from sun- 
light to shadow, between the trunks of the 
great pines, refreshed body and soul alike. 
There were deep, quiet pools and brawling 
rapids, infinitely various; and everywhere 
around us, above green depths of solitude, 
the inimitable forest stretched its protect- 
ing arms. Occasionally, we met one of the 
white-robed monks, or some uniformed offi- 
cial of the governmental Forestry School, 
which flourishes in a complete establish- 
ment, a mile away, down the valley ; but, 
oftener, we were the only disturbers of the 
peace. We soon found that our reminiscent 
Florentines, expressive as they tried to be, 
had but half expressed the enchantment of 
Camaldoli. 

At the end of a woodland path in a small 
clearing, nearly a thousand feet above the 

"5 



Lands of Summer 

monastery, is the Sacro Eremo, — a Bene- 
dictine settlement, to which certain of the 
order retire for the austerities of a hermit life. 
It is a walled village of a single street, where 
the snug, convenient houses are detached, 
each abode standing in its cultivated plot of 
ground. The monks meet daily at mass in 
the common church, but silence is enforced, 
and otherwise they live apart in strict seclu- 
sion. We found them at prayer; and when 
the service ended, one, detailed for the pur- 
pose, welcomed the strangers hospitably. 
He was glad to talk, to answer questions, 
to display his own well-appointed quarters, 
his private garden. Its terrace had a won- 
drous view southward toward the Arno and 
Arezzo ; but all his thoughts, so far as we 
could follow them, were bounded by the 
tranquil hermitage. 

Turning to the open country, one finds 
Camaldoli encircled by lofty peaks that tempt 
the mountain-climber; and along their foot- 
hills, good roads for the unambitious lead 

ii6 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

to the School of Forestry, before-mentioned, 
and to Serravalle, a small town, or townlet, 
on a high rock jutting out over the river 
Archiano, one of the Arno's important 
branches. On our way back to Poppi we 
left the turnpike to explore the Archiano 
valley, driving a long distance, as far as 
the mountain-village of Badia a Prataglia, 
which stands even higher than Camaldoli. 
There is no forest ; but its good inns and 
cheery villas have made it, for Tuscans, one 
of the habitable retreats in the Casentino. 

The drive from Poppi to La Verna is 
longer and more varied than that to Ca- 
maldoli. In rounding the base of the hill on 
which Bibbiena stands, we came, at a bend 
of the road, upon a fine old monastery, — 
the Madonna del Sasso, containing an inter- 
esting Robbia altar-piece and other quaintly 
distinctive decorations of the same school. 
Further on we climbed a steep ridge to 
plunge into the wooded gorge beyond it ; 
then, after fording a shallow stream at its 

117 



Lands of Summer 

lowest point, we climbed again, under sturdy 
oaks, to wind-swept tracts of upland marsh 
and stony pasture. Here, looking back, we 
appeared already to have reached the sum- 
mit of the world ; but, forward, afar off, the 
sandstone rocks of La Verna, rudely splin- 
tered by earthquake long ago, sprang sharply 
up against the sky. As we drew nearer, the 
monastery buildings slowly detached them- 
selves from dark recesses, closed in by 
woods of pine and beech, spreading on to 
the highest point, the peak of La Penna. 
Below the monastery gate we drew up in a 
small cluster of houses ; among them stood 
our inn, a poor, unalluring place, reached 
by a stone staircase, open to all the world. 

We had driven for more than three hours, 
into early afternoon. So we ordered imme- 
diately our first meal, which, though sim- 
ple, was surprisingly good. The inn dogs, 
^^Pisare'' and "Tago," eagerly helped to eat 
it ; and one of the gentler sex, who did not 
belong there, dashed upstairs persistently 

ii8 



Midsummer in 'Tuscany 

to share it with them; but " Pisare " ^ — a 
yellow mongrel — constituted himself our 
special protector, and at a sign from us, 
for which he always waited, hunted the in- 
truder down again as often as she appeared. 
We had planned to pass the night, and 
asked to be shown our lodging. Over that 
hung a cloud of mystery. We were to be 
accommodated, but in what precise position 
no one at the moment could decide. All 
depended upon some incident that might 
or might not happen, — an arrival, or the 
reverse. Resigning ourselves to uncertainty, 
we left our luggage in a corner of the only 
room we had seen, and went off to pay our 
first visit to the sanctuary. We scaled the 
steep by a paved road that winds up to the 
principal entrance, — an arched gateway, 
leading to an open court which is the centre 
of the whole system. At one end was the 
church, with its campanile ; at the other, a 
stone terrace, with a statue of Saint Francis 
and a covered well ; on either side, dormi- 

119 



Lands of Summer 

tories, chapels, and cloisters closed in the 
precincts ; mysterious stairways led down 
to caverns in the rock, and from the ter- 
race-wall was an outlook over all the land. 
The bells rang in the tower ; then, through 
a cloistered ambulatory, the monks filed 
toward us in a long procession. We fol- 
lowed them into the church, and watched 
the impressive service ; after which, one oi 
the monks, stepping aside to greet us cor- 
dially, devoted himself to our entertainment 
for the rest of the afternoon. 

He was young, merry, intelligent, and 
filled with a desire to impart information, le- 
gendary or otherwise. From him we learned 
more of Saint Francis than we had ever 
known before. We were shown his stone 
bed in a dank cave ; the innermost retreat, 
wherein he fasted during the Lenten season; 
the cliff from which the Devil hurled him ; 
the rock below it, which melted into wax 
to receive him unharmed. Up and down 
we went, indoors and out, attended always 

1 20 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

by our illuminating guide, who, leaving no 
arcana unexplained, kept for his choicest 
disclosure the chapel built upon the spot 
where the Saint received the Stigmata. 
There, three times a week, at midnight, the 
monks gather to scourge themselves in com- 
memoration of the miraculous event. The 
small building enshrines a glorious Robbia 
crucifixion. We returned through the ar- 
caded passage to the church, and, after 
accepting an urgent invitation to lunch at 
the monastery on the following day, were 
left to studv other works of the Robbia 
school collected there, — one, a beautiful 
Annunciation, probably from Luca's own 
hand. Then, outside in the court, we joined 
a party of visiting Italians, bent upon seeing 
the view from La Penna. As the matrons 
in charge were unequal to the climb, there 
had been provided for them a " treggia," — 
that curious native vehicle, in form merely 
a triangular wooden sledge, resembling a 
snow-plough. The women, seated upon it, 

121 



Lands of Summer 

were drawn by two white oxen, grave-eyed 
and deliberate, up the forest-path which 
often became no path at all ; while the rest 
of us toiled on foot beside them to Dante's 

*' . . . rude rock 'twixt Tiber and the Arno," 

where the view was well worth all our pains. 
We stood upon a crest of the Apennines, 
looking north at Falterona, the Arno's 
source; northeast at Mount Fumajolo, the 
Tiber's. Between the two stretched an un- 
inhabited wilderness of mountain, gorge, 
and forest. Here were the " antres vast 
and deserts idle " of Shakespeare, the selva 
oscura of the Inferno, cut off from the 
world of men by the solemn wood behind 
us. Through it, descending by another 
path, we came out into the open fields, 
and, toward sunset, strolled back to the inn 
across a green paddock into which Angelo 
had turned our horses. 

The quarters reserved for us, though mea- 
gre, were the best that the house afforded. 

122 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

They really belonged to the resident doc- 
tor, who has the health of the monks in his 
keeping. Absent, now, on a short vacation, 
he had fixed that very day for his return ; 
but, at nightfall, there was still no sign of 
him. We earnestly hoped that he would not 
turn up, when we found ourselves installed 
among his personal effects. Books and pri- 
vate papers lay scattered upon the writing- 
table ; there were photographs, too, inscribed 
with tender messages, — surely, not for 
strange eyes. We tried to imagine what he 
was like and what remarks he would make, 
if^ coming home at dead of night, he should 
find us in possession. Fortunately, he did 
not come, and, later, we understood why. 
For, by a strange chance, within a fortnight, 
we met friends of his in another part of 
Tuscany, and were told that he had just 
been married. We pictured, mentally, the 
bringing home of the bride, and wondered 
how long she would be content with a life of 
sequestration amid such poor surroundings. 

123 



Lands of Summer 

The next morning we revisited the sanc- 
tuary, well in advance of our luncheon- 
appointment, for another service there. Out 
of the sparkling sunshine, as before, the 
monks filed through the cloister and knelt 
around us on the pavement of the dimly 
lighted church, from which they are never 
long absent, since eight hours in every 
twenty-four are given to devotion. When 
our meal was ready, we were conducted 
through vaulted corridors to a small re- 
fectory, hung with colored prints illustrat- 
ing the lives of the saints. There, apart 
from other guests, we were served by one 
of the friars. The cook, also of the order, 
came to pay us his respects. He was a 
native of Siena, and he dwelt upon details of 
his former life with a kind of hungry eager- 
ness. His father and brothers were still liv- 
ing in the city, and he was permitted to 
pay them occasional visits, which, clearly, 
came none too often. After luncheon we 
took a long walk southward over the sheep- 

124 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

pastures to the ruined castle of Chiusi, where 
Michael Angelo's father lived for a while, as 
lord of the commune. The master, himself, 
was born in the town of Caprese, a few miles 
distant down the valley, though his asso- 
ciation with this remote region must have 
been of the slightest; for, in his infancy, he 
was removed to Settignano, near Florence, 
thus becoming to all intents and purposes 
a Florentine. 

Late in the afternoon our own Angelo 
harnessed up to drive us back into the world. 
On the way we turned aside through Bib- 
biena, chiefly to assure ourselves that we had 
made no mistake in preferring Poppi to it 
as an abiding-place. Our accidental prefer- 
ence was confirmed. For though the town 
is well placed on its hill-summit, the streets 
seemed narrow and dark in our inevitable 
comparison. We missed our towered castle, 
our cool, shaded terrace, which we hailed 
with dehght, as we wound toward them in 
the afterglow. Arriving, we found Poppi all 

125 



Lands of Summer 

astir with preparations for the Madonna's 
feast, to be celebrated on the morrow. Such 
a festival in Italy, beginning always on the 
preceding day, ends only on the day after. 
The first procession was already forming 
in the depths of the fountain-square, below 
our windowed eyrie. We watched the start, 
as we dined luxuriously, happy to be at 
home again. 

The next day, one function succeeded 
another from dawn until after dark. There 
were services in all the churches ; a church 
parade, in which an image of the Madonna 
was borne in state through all the streets ; 
another, in which it was borne back again. 
Certain representatives of the various quar- 
ters took part in these processions, — an 
honor highly coveted. This year, the chil- 
dren of our host were among the chosen. 
They wore their very best clothes ; and the 
whole house assumed an air of distinction, 
by which we profited. Unfortunately, the 
day was showery ; but the gay crowd minded 

ia6 



Midsummer in 'Tuscany 

the raindrops little, the children minded 
them less. As the clouds considerately dis- 
persed in time for the illuminations, we all 
sat up late, and went to bed tired, yet un- 
daunted. 

Too soon came the time of our depar- 
ture. Early one fine morning Angelo drew 
up at the garden-gate for his last and long- 
est expedition, — a drive of more than four 
hours out of the Casentino, over the hills 
and far away, — as far as Vallombrosa. At 
first, all was thrice familiar. We drove north 
through the chestnut woods above ruined 
Romena, looking backward upon Prato- 
vecchio and the wide valley ; forward upon 
Stia, simmering in the sun. To the west, near 
at hand, stood the ruins of another castle, 
San Niccolo. Our road lay beyond it, over 
arid ridges in long succession. We climbed 
them slowly into air that grew Alpine in its 
exhilaration. Now and then we passed a 
wayside tavern, displaying its withered wine- 
bush; or some mountain-village of the hum- 

127 



Lands of Summer 

blest sort. In one of these, at the foot of a 
steep hill, a peasant-girl added a third horse 
to our equipage, and proceeded with us up 
the incline for a mile, or more. She was a 
cheerful,, rosy being, who chattered merrily 
with us as she walked beside the wheels. 

So we went westward, up the Consuma 
Pass, to the squalid village of Consuma at 
its highest point. The namej^thus reiterated, 
has a history. It is derived from the dread- 
ful sentence executed here, toward the close 
of the thirteenth century, upon Dante's 
Maestro Adamo, who recounts his own mis- 
deeds in the Inferno. Tried and condemned 
for counterfeiting golden florins at the in- 
stigation of the lords of Romena, he was 
burned alive^at the roadside. Here, at the 
village inn, we stopped to refresh our horses ; 
then we began the descent, turning sharply 
toward the south, to take a road newly 
planned, at many points still unfinished, 
which brought us by a short cut into the 
Vallombrosan shades. There, in Milton's 

128 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

woody theatre, under the monastery tower, 
we took leave of Angelo, — undemonstra- 
tively, of course, as befitted his dignity ; yet, 
on our side, the parting was one of real 
regret, in which it is to be hoped that he, 
too, had some share. He returned into his 
native valley, and we hurried to our belated 
luncheon at the Forest Inn. 

We stood upon terms of old acquaint- 
ance with Vallombrosa, — a memorable spot, 
well known to all the world, at least by 
reputation. Yet coming out into it, as we 
now did, from the by-paths of the Casen- 
tino, the scene looked swept and garnished, 
— -almost like a mere suburb of Florence, 
whose pinnacles glittered in the sunlight, 
far below. We loved the quiet walks on 
the pine-clad hillside, the smooth, green 
meadow in the foreground, with its dancing 
trees; but the modern villas were aggres- 
sively conspicuous. The discordant Grand 
Hotel a mile away, at Saltino, was out of 
sight, yet we felt its presence; and there 

129 



Lands of Summer 

overflowed from it a multitude of transient 
foreigners, suggesting an afternoon picnic, 
incongruously organized. A cable-railway 
has made the approach too easy; to enjoy 
it fully in these later days, one must see 
Vallombrosa before, not after, Camaldoli. 
We lingered on a few hours to revive old 
memories, and then sought fresher woods 
and newer pastures, coming down to Flor- 
ence for a single night on the way. The heat 
there had really begun at last. The Floren- 
tines were all gone; and even the "caravan," 
hourly threatened, did not come. 

II 

All Italian travellers must remember the 
distressing series of tunnels through the 
mountains on the direct railway-route be- 
tween Florence and Bologna. Issuing from 
one of these midway of the line, at its high- 
est level, the train stops at Pracchia, an in- 
significant village in a narrow gorge, where 

130 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

the river Reno meets its rushing tributary, 
the Maresca. The place looks unpromising; 
and its chief attraction proves, in fact, to be 
the excellent inn, which is a good starting- 
point for high flights into the Pistoian 
Apennines. 

We had passed the night there; and the 
next day, after luncheon, on exploration bent, 
we left the region of tunnels behind, driving 
westward from the gorge into an open valley, 
along the highroad leading down to Lucca, 
which is only twenty miles ofl\ Like all high- 
roads the world over, this is now infested by 
motor-cars ; but we soon turned aside from 
its dusty traffic to scale serene heights on 
which the restless devotee of rapid transit is 
content to gaze when passing. Up we went 
between woods and corn-fields, until in a 
short hour and a half we had reached our 
destination, Gavinana, a diminutive town 
on a craggy spur of the mountain. 

Gavinana is surrounded by fine old chest- 
• nut woods. The neighboring walks are of 

131 



Lands of Summer 

primal Tuscan beauty ; but the place itself, 
cramped and comparatively featureless,shows 
from without more picturesqueness than is 
sustained within. It clings fondly to the 
merited renown of a local patriot, Ferruccio, 
who fell in battle near the town, struggling 
vainly for Tuscan independence, in 1530, 
just before the restoration of the Medici. 
His house still stands in the small piazza, 
and the inn, opposite, has been given his 
name. One escapes gladly, however, from 
narrow streets and dull walls to roam over 
the free hillsides, under chestnuts centuries 
old, which must have flourished in their 
prime when the great battle was fought 
among them. The hut that sheltered the 
dying hero is pointed out, and his memory 
distinguishes all the pleasant land. Another 
claim to distinction exists in its pure, native 
speech, which, everywhere, even among the 
humblest, has no trace of provincial patois. 
Here, in and out of Gavinana, we passed 
delightful days. Her citizens were hospita- 

132 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

ble ; so, too, were the outlying farmers, their 
wives and children. Our fellow-lodgers at 
the Albergo Ferruccio chanced to be cor- 
dial, friendly Florentines. With them, one 
night, we watched from our inn-balcony the 
open-air performance of a strolling circus 
which settled down for the evening upon the 
pavement of the square. By day we walked 
onward to the pretty town of San Marcello 
at the valley's foot ; or back, over the hills, to 
Maresca village by its rapid stream, coming 
there upon a festal celebration which had 
drawn in half the countryside. 

Then, one morning, we drove on, — still 
westward, first, to San Marcello; thence, 
crossing the river Lima, we began at once to 
ascend the cliffs forming its right bank, by 
a toilsome, zigzag road. 

The Lima, with its full, swift current, is 
one of the most beautiful and also one of 
the most treacherous among mountain rivers. 
Ten miles lower down, meeting the Serchio 
at Bagni di Lucca, it brings perpetual refresh- 



Lands of Summer 

ment to the shady gorge, which, in summer, 
has long been a favorite refuge of Lucca's 
citizens from their glowing plain. There, 
coursing smoothly, the Lima seems a mild 
and placid stream. But here, above San Mar- 
cello, it dashes from its mountain-source at 
all seasons in tremendous vigor, making a 
sharp turn to plough a channel for itself 
down through the foothills. Swollen by 
spring and autumn rains, it surges above its 
confined bed at a moment's notice, with fear- 
ful turbulence, into a destructive force against 
which the whole land is fortified. Huge stone 
dikes, that look stout enough to repel an 
army, defend the roads and even the ever- 
lasting hills themselves. On this July day, 
as we passed, the water was, comparatively, 
low ; yet it broke upon these barriers so 
furiously, that we needed no stronger hint 
of its dangerous possibilities. 

We had entered the old road which runs 
from Pistoia to Modena over the Abetone 
Pass ; and, leaving the Lima far below us, 

134 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

we went upward and onward, until in another 
hour, at the height of two thousand feet, 
we had reached the level of Cutigliano on 
the opposite shore. This was barely mid- 
way in the long ascent. The red-roofed town 
soon became a mere speck in the distance ; 
around and above us opened a vast natural 
amphitheatre, into the heart of which we 
climbed. At the end of the third hour we 
came out upon a long ridge overgrown with 
firs ; then drove straight on through the vil- 
lage of Boscolungo and beyond it, to the 
outlying inn, which stands, encircled by the 
forest, at the top of the pass, near the point 
where the road turns abruptly, to wind down 
again from the ridge on the Modena side. 

This turn of the road — four thousand, 
five hundred feet above the sea — gives a 
splendid panoramic outlook over the fur- 
ther valley. It is marked by two monu- 
mental stone pyramids, erected by a Duke 
of Modena in the eighteenth century, to 
commemorate his improvement of the road- 



Lands of Summer 

bed. Below them, an ugly modern village 
of hotels and pensions follows for half a mile 
the first stage of the descent ; but a whole 
day had passed before we discovered these 
ill-judged signs of progress. On the Pis- 
toian side all was beautiful. Our windows 
looked upon the forest, and over it to jag- 
ged summits, near and far away. In the 
foreground was a small green clearing of 
half an acre, dotted with wild-flowers. We 
went down into it, gathering more than fifty 
varieties in a single hour. Then we took to 
the woods, and walked miles there in our 
first afternoon. We could have accomplished 
easily twice their sum, for the air had a 
bracing purity that immediately dispelled 
all sense of fatigue. Merely to breathe it 
was a joy. We seemed to have attained 
some playground on Olympian heights, 
where exertion in all its forms became un- 
wearying pleasure. We were like the horses, 
who, let loose into the meadows, began at 
once to prance and gambol and roll upon 

136 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

the grass ecstatically. The first effect did 
not wear off; it increased, rather, day by 
day. At Abetone, the feet of man and beast 
alike are perpetually winged. 

The forest, like that of Camaldoli, is in 
governmental charge, maintained with great 
care. Much of it has been freed from under- 
brush ; there the excellent paths, provided 
with seats at intervals, are distinguished by 
royal names ; there, too, over chasms art- 
fully bridged, park-like avenues lead through 
the pines to open vistas or to some inner 
clearing thickly overshadowed. One may 
go on and on, however, into wilder tracts, 
as yet unreclaimed by the foresters. There 
are brooks to follow, rough slopes to climb 
for glimpses of distant torrents, roaring into 
gulfs impassable. There the charcoal-burn- 
ers work over their primitive kilns, — low 
mounds of earth rudely heaped on the hill- 
side. Once, in a narrow wood-road, down 
rocky steeps, we came unexpectedly upon a 
huge stone arch, grass-grown, that spanned 

137 



Lands of Summer 

a foaming rapid at the bottom of the ravine. 
Beyond, the rapid widened into a pool, on 
the brink of which stood a ruined mill, 
half hidden by the undergrowth, — like the 
bridge, invisible from above ; but from below, 
the solid arch, defying time and nature, rose 
grandly against the sky. The place looked 
deserted, abandoned, — forgotten, as we at 
once began to hope, — unknown, perhaps, 
to any but ourselves. In that hope we self- 
ishly refrained from mentioning the Ponte 
Discreto, as we named the bridge, to our 
chance acquaintances of the inn. Since then, 
we have withheld the clue to its hiding- 
place, religiously, from all the world. That, 
as we trust, is still our secret, to be kept 
always unrevealed. For we mean to go back 
some day — the earlier day, the better — to 
rediscover the lost trail. 

In due course, we returned by Gavinana 
to Pracchia, thence proceeding through the 
tunnels toward Venice and the sea. On the 
journey we wondered if Abetone really is, 

138 



Midsummer in Tuscany 

as one of our Florentine friends declares, 
the finest spot on earth. Our limited know- 
ledge of the planet leaves the question still 
unsolved ; but so far as that knowledge 
goes, " at least/' to quote Hamlet with a 
difference, " it may be so in Tuscany ; '* for 
no spot there springs up in our remem- 
brance to compete with it, — except, per- 
haps, Camaldoli. 



Bergamo and the 

Bergamasque Alps 




Bergamo and the 

Bergamasque Alps 



We cherished stimulative memories 
of an autumnal visit to the provincial Lom- 
bard city, so adroitly adjusted to incom- 
patible levels by the tunnelled funicular 
tramway which makes two cities one; but 
the last of November is not the best season 
for Bergamo. It had been windy, gray, and 
cold there ; so cold, that we had filled our 

143 



Lands of Summer 

pockets with newly roasted chestnuts to 
warm our hands, as we made a brisk circuit 
of the bastions, watching the day's last 
flicker die out early in the afternoon. Then 
we had gone shivering down in the dark to 
our inn of the lower city ; an inn draughtily 
constructed around an open, galleried court, 
needing summer heat to make it really hab- 
itable. The next day we had reluctantly 
curtailed our visit, having seen much, but 
leaving much to await a better opportunity. 
Now, in August, the opportunity came, 
introducing us to a very diflferent Bergamo. 
Theupper city, with its Romanesque, Gothic, 
and Renaissance mingled in reckless confu- 
sion, was of genial warmth. We loitered on 
the ramparts in the long twilight, looking 
southward over the green Lombard plain, 
and northward up the Brembo and Serio 
valleys to Alpine heights tinged by the after- 
glow. When we strolled down under mur- 
muring leaves to the lower city, every door 
stood open ; the citizens swarmed in the 

144 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

streets, where some of them kept up a lively 
commotion all night long. We offset their 
noisy unrest by their enviable Italian gayety, 
and slept in spite of everything. 

Bergamo, lying off the main line of travel, 
is never overburdened with strangers. Those 
who turn aside for it find the better welcome 
in consequence to a city that well rewards 
their pains. For these Siamese twins of Italy 
still retain much of that pleasant individu- 
ality which, as the chronicles relate, distin- 
guished their prolonged subjection to Ven- 
ice. Here flourished the Venetian painter, 
Lorenzo Lotto, long enough to leave many 
examples of his work behind him. His 
altar-pieces abound in the churches, and his 
Marriage of Saint Catherine is given the 
centre of a panel in the small but remark- 
able picture gallery. Its custodian, who con- 
siderately effaces himself, finely reserved, 
calls the gallery "discreet;'' speaking the 
modest word with an emphasis that sounds 
a note of praise none too extravagant. His 

145 



Lands of Summer 

charge has recently been enriched by the 
legacy of the art-critic, Morelli, who be- 
queathed a rare collection of old masters to 
the town. 

The extraordinary cluster of buildings 
about the central piazza of the upper city 
makes it one of the most interesting squares 
in Italy. The old Gothic town-house of the 
Broletto extends across it upon three lofty 
arches. In one corner is an outer stairway 
to the upper story, behind which a fine 
Ghibelline tower cuts into the sky. Oppo- 
site is the unfinished Renaissance palace of 
Scamozzi ; and the Broletto arches lead 
through open colonnades to the Roman- 
esque facade of Santa Maria Maggiore, with 
its curious lion-portals, flanked by the Col- 
leoni chapel, rich in sculptured detail. On 
one side of a small, inner square is the Bap- 
tistery ; on the other, the Renaissance front 
of the Cathedral. All gain dignity from the 
odd nook in which one comes upon them 
from the arcade, startled at the discov- 

146 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

ery ; as, in the old days, Notre Dame, at 
Paris, was first seen across its narrow Parvis, 
before modern improvement, seeking to 
heighten an effect, actually dwarfed its noble 
towers. 

The interior of Santa Maria, though flor- 
idly restored, long ago, in the baroque style, 
is of admirable proportions. Its walls are 
hung throughout with Flemish tapestries, 
and the choir-stalls are inlaid with wonderful 
intarsia-work, some of which was designed 
by Lotto. A " Pantheon of great men,'' it 
enshrines among them two idols of Ber- 
gamo, whose titles to eminence are as dis- 
tinct as the ages in which they lived, — the 
composer, Donizetti, of the nineteenth cen- 
tury ; and that wise general, commemorated 
in Venice by Verrocchio's statue, Bartolom- 
meo Colleoni, who, dying in 1475, ^^^ 
buried here in his own private chapel. 

In the right aisle of the church stands 
Donizetti's elaborate tomb. Not content 
with that, the pious citizens have indulged 

147 



Lands of Summer 

local pride by doubly and trebly insist- 
ing upon his renown. Inevitably, the new 
theatre of the lower city became the Teatro 
Donizetti ; the square beside it they named 
for him, likewise ; and in the square they 
reared a monument, exhibiting their com- 
poser in the throes of inspiration. Seated 
on a Greek exedra, he summons the Muse, 
who, lyre in hand, advances toward him. 
The figures, though of heroic size, are real- 
istically treated ; and the whole composition 
is discordant, unrestful as the life around it. 
One look induces a disposition to fly from 
it into the neighboring square of the Fiera, 
— a quiet precinct of green alleys, statue- 
free, and quaint booths where the annual 
fair is held. Thereafter, it becomes easy to 
avoid altogether the pretentious monstrosity, 
which would imperil the fame of a greater 
man than Donizetti. The awful ineptitudes 
of modern Italian art do but defeat them- 
selves. 

With the great commander, Colleoni, hap- 

148 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

pily it fared otherwise. His chapel, by the 
Lombard sculptor, Amadeo, ornamented 
with reliefs and statuettes in intricate pro- 
fusion, holds an honorable place among the 
glories of the Renaissance. Five marble 
heroes watch over his tomb, which is sur- 
mounted by a portrait-statue. Beside him 
lies his daughter, Medea, in a tomb even 
more beautiful than his own, supporting a 
girl's recumbent figure, simply draped, with 
attendant mourning angels. The superb 
details of this sanctuary are subordinated 
to the general effect, which, as befits the 
hero, that '^ pattern of every Christian and 
knightly virtue," is one of serene repose. 
Fortunate in his death, as in his life, he 
belonged to a time when public memorials 
were not matters to be feared. 

Some years before the end of his green 
old age, Colleoni made over his town-house 
to charitable uses. It is still standing, de- 
voted to the orphanage which he founded 
there, a stone's throw from his tomb. He 

149 



Lands of Summer 

lived and died at his castle of Malpaga, far 
out on the flat plain, an hour's drive from the 
city. The fact that he bought and remodelled 
an ancient stronghold, to which he had taken 
a fancy, explains his choice of site, otherwise 
incomprehensible, since all the hills were at 
his command. The road to Malpaga must 
always have been a dull one, and now mod- 
ern manufacturing suburbs hedge it in for 
the greater part of the way, till it turns at 
last into a green, country lane, overtopped 
by the castle-tower. 

The red-brick, moated fortress with vine- 
encumbered walls stands alone in a sunny 
field. Low out-buildings, where once the re- 
tainers lodged, are now neglected; but the 
castle, itself, remains in excellent condition. 
Patiently and proudly its amiable guardian 
lowers the old drawbridge to display the 
faded splendors within. There is a central, 
arcaded court, stately and solemn, embla- 
zoned in every arch with armorial bearings 
and cabalistic symbols. Some of the deco- 

150 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

rations date from Colleoni's time. The 
important ones, however, are due to his 
grandson, who, a few years later, employed 
the Brescian painter, Romanino, to illustrate 
ancestral triumphs, then fresh in every mind. 
The wall-spaces of the court were filled with 
vivid reproductions in color of the former 
master's victories. Here the frescoes, so 
long exposed to wind and weather, are much 
defaced ; and no attempt has been made to 
restore them. 

In the banquet-hall, which opens from 
the court, the frescoes, also by Romanino, 
are uninjured. They line the walls with 
scenes of Colleoni's hospitality during a 
festival in honor of the King of Denmark, 
who paid a visit to the castle. Here, he wel- 
comes the royal guest and all his retinue ; 
here, they are engaged in hunting; here, a 
tournament is held before the King; Col- 
leoni, in the next, distributes prizes to the 
victors; there is a banquet, with the whole 
company gathered about him at the table, 



Lands of Summer 

in rich apparel; finally, the King takes leave, 
and rides away, escorted by his host. The 
brilliant series is valuable, not only in a 
decorative sense, but also for its strong his- 
toric interest. Only these suggestions of his 
splendid liberality are left; since the hall is 
empty, like the apartments overhead, in one 
of which, the dark alcove of a chamber, 
lighted from an airy loggia, Colleoni died. 
Yet the castle, descending to our own time, 
through generations of his family, has es- 
caped and still escapes modern improve- 
ment; for the present owner, who acquired 
the property by purchase, holds it intact, 
like an heirloom. The attendant, confronted 
at every turn with the founder's likeness, 
murmurs his name reverently in the de- 
nuded halls and corridors ; and the good 
commander keeps his state there still, a 
living presence that has outlasted all the 
centuries. 

One breathless Sunday afternoon the 
mountains seemed calling us imperatively 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

to come up from the scorching plain. We 
asked nothing better; but the mountains 
were many; many ways led into them; and 
of their comparative merits we knew Httle. 
We begged, therefore, advice from our land- 
lord, who, taking immediate interest in the 
matter, urged us to try the valley of the 
Serio. There was good lodging at Ponte 
della Selva; but if that were not high enough, 
we could go on farther up the valley to a 
new inn which he strongly recommended. 

A train of the steam-tramway left in half 
an hour, and, flinging ourselves hastily into 
light travelling order, we caught it. A very 
stuflfy, crowded train it was, crawling pain- 
fully between long intervals of pause at 
dusty villages darkened by factory walls ; 
but it crawled always upward ; and the mill- 
hands, on the way home from their holiday, 
gradually alighting, left us more at ease. A 
breeze sprang up, too, as we crept on along 
the river-bank, with the brimming torrent 
almost at our wheels. An hour and a half 



Lands of Summer 

of this slow progress brought us to Ponte 
della Selva, the terminus of the line. It was 
a busy little place, bare and treeless. A 
high bridge, spanning the river, led to the 
hotel, conspicuously asserting itself on the 
opposite shore in the full glare of the sun. 
Half a look at it was enough. We must 
take the alternative course, and try the new 
inn, higher up, at Ardesio. Plainly, no one 
expected that we should stay here; for a row 
of vehicles stood just outside the station, 
and the drivers at once surrounded us, clam- 
oring for custom. We accepted the rea- 
sonable terms of a gaunt, brown-bearded 
native, who looked like a reformed brigand; 
wondering, when we saw his equipment, 
how long it would hold together ; but he 
sprang to the box confidently; and, over- 
coming distrust with the thought that Ar- 
desio could not be far off, we rattled toward 
it behind him, at breakneck speed. 

The moment that we left the village, we 
thought only of the scene around us. The 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

road went on beside the whirling rapids of 
the Serio, which resembled a glacial stream 
in Switzerland, deep and full, with clouded 
waters of a wondrous indeterminate color, 
now blue, now green, then a blending of the 
two. Before us rose a range of mountain- 
slopes, under rocky peaks, pyramidal in 
form. Their lower gorges opened east and 
west of us, but we drove due north, toward 
a distant summit that overtopped them all. 
The villages, infrequent now, were no longer 
of a commercial cast. Our driver, half-turn- 
ing in his seat, discoursed of them in a mix- 
ture of Italian and the mountain-patois, 
uncouth like himself. On the outskirts of 
one small settlement, the whole population 
seemed to have assembled in a meadow by 
the river-side. They wore holiday attire, but 
were strangely silent. A little apart, one 
tall man lay stretched out, face downward, 
on the grass. We had a momentary impres- 
sion of the scene as we passed, and won- 
dered what it meant. 



Lands of Summer 

"He must have fallen in a fit/' we sug- 
gested. 

"Or he is drunk, perhaps," the driver 
returned shrewdly. "Who knows?" 

A mile farther on we met three men, 
coming down the road at a rapid gait. They 
stopped us to ask questions in the inscruta- 
ble dialect,- — then hurried by. 

We asked what had happened. 

"The man is drowned," explained the 
driver. "How he got into the river I do 
not know, but it was the end of him. Look 
at it ! And yet they try to bathe there. They 
go in over-heated, catch the cramp, and are 
drawn under. Every year it happens; the 
water is so cold." 

Our minds slipped back, as we advanced, 
to that grave company, gayly dressed, 
speechless before the prostrate figure. 
Glancing in the sunshine, the Serio swept 
down toward it with a new significance, 
henceforth ineffaceable. The water was a 
thing of beauty; but it was deadly, too. 

156 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

An exclamation from our guiding-spirit 
broke the silence that had settled upon us 
all. 

"Ardesio!'' he called to us, pointing up 
the valley, which had broadened unex- 
pectedly in the last few moments. We saw 
overhead, in the middle distance, upon a 
smooth, green plateau high above the river, 
the towers of a town. Islanded on what 
seemed an artificial hillock, it loomed up in 
the mountain wilderness, like some fortified 
outpost of civilization ; and above it, as we 
looked, against the dark forest-background, 
we caught a flutter of the Italian colors. 

"That is the place," the man continued; 
"the flag flies at the inn." 

Our course of half an hour had been a 
gradual ascent from Ponte della Selva. Now 
the way grew steeper; but it was very short; 
fifteen minutes later, we crossed the Serio, 
and climbed to the outer edge of the pla- 
teau. A wide meadow, sloping gently to the 
river-shore, stretched northward toward a 

157 



Lands of Summer 

fine old bridge beyond the town. This was 
the Ponte di Brialto, a landmark of the val- 
ley, as we soon discovered. Close beside us, 
on a terrace jutting out over the field, stood 
a low, cloistered church, curiously suggest- 
ing a casino of the cinque cento period, rather 
than a sanctuary. Passing this by, we en- 
tered the town-limits. Under chiming bell- 
towers, by church-doors, through narrow, 
busy streets where rudely decorated house- 
fronts illustrated saintly lives, we drove up 
to an open square on the northern side. A 
bridge curved away from it over a branch of 
the Serio, that foamed downward through a 
rocky gorge. On its brink was a covered 
fountain, — the town rendezvous and water- 
ing-place. Chattering gossips were collected 
there, scrubbing their copper kettles, or dry- 
ing them in the sun. Close beside it, we 
turned abruptly, through an iron grille^ into 
the courtyard of the inn. 

The landlord met us with profuse apolo- 
gies. He had not a single room to place at 

158 



Bergamo ajid the Bergamasque Alps 

our disposal. He was grieved, desolated, in 
fact ; but what would we have? Sunday was 
a festal day, and the house was more than 
full already. 

We looked forth upon his earthly para- 
dise in desperation. To enter in at its gate 
only to be cast out again was a cruel coun- 
terstroke of fortune. Must we drive back, 
then, to the arid crudities of Ponte della 
Selva? How could that be borne? 

The host's next remark cancelled all dis- 
-<ouragement. We were to stay with him, of 
course. To-morrow, there would be room,, 
in plenty. Meanwhile, to-night, he would 
lodge us somewhere in the town, if we did 
not mind. Dinner was ready on the upper 
terrace. Would it please us to alight, and 
be served ? 

We minded not at all ; moreover, our 
appetites were keen. He led us across the 
courtyard to an open gallery, set with small 
tables, brightened by flowers and wine- 
flasks. The meal had just begun. We chose 



Lands of Summer 

a table next the railing, seated ourselves at 
it, and looked out. 

We were at the intersection of four up- 
land valleys, extending north, south, east, 
and west. To the south, below the town- 
roofs, ran the road of our approach from 
Bergamo. The eastern valley, higher than 
the others, was thickly wooded. That on 
the west ended in a vast Alpine arena, aglow 
with the setting sun. Northward, beyond 
the Brialto bridge, we looked far up the 
river to the still distant peak of Mount 
Redorta, towering above the rest. Twenty 
feet down, in our immediate foreground, 
the tributary streamlet plunged amid rocks 
and underbrush to join the Serio. There, at 
the lower level, on a supplementary ter- 
race, built out to the water's edge, several of 
the townsmen were playing at bowls. 

The tables around us filled up with a 
merry company of resident strangers. All 
had a confident air of possession, which, as 
interlopers, we regarded enviously ; but the 

1 60 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

incomparable prospect and a course or two 
of the dinner soon set us right. Then came 
the host again with reassuring words. 

" I have secured lodging/' he said, 
^^ which, I hope, will content you. The 
Syndic of the commune has offered to take 
you in." 

We made our content manifest. Thus 
far, he had spoken in Italian. Now, sud- 
denly, he changed his ground. 

" I am very glad," he remarked easily, 
in our own tongue. " My house has been 
open for two months ; but you are the first 
English-speaking people to come my way." 

We explained that, though of Anglo- 
Saxon race, we were Americans. 

" So much the better ! " he continued, 
laughing. " I lived long in New York. I 
know the Cafe Martin, Delmonico's, the 
Waldorf. Shall I make you a Manhattan 
cocktail ? " 

The everlasting hills melted away in the 
twilight that had stolen round us as we 

i6i 



Lands of Summer 

talked. Instead, we saw a hideous phantasm 
of sky-scrapers and trolley-cars, conjured up 
by his unexpected word. A familiar click 
followed it ; and electric lights flashed every- 
where : on the terrace, in the house, over 
the courtyard. 

Cocktails and arc-lights ! This was any- 
thing but civilization's outpost. Then we 
heard the rush of water; the broad moun- 
tain-barrier, the uninvaded empire of the 
night, refreshed our dazzled eyes. We were 
here, not there, after all. Here was Arde- 
sio ; and in the cool shadows of the lower 
terrace its unfamiliar shapes finished their 
game of bowls. 

The Syndic's house was not lighted by 
electricity. It stood in the centre of the 
town ; and we were conducted thither in the 
dark, up tortuous ways ; entering, finally, 
a walled court through gates that closed 
heavily behind us, as they might have done 
in feudal ages. In a dim, upper corridor, an 
elderly woman, whom we assumed to be our 

162 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

hostess, came forward with a word of wel- 
come. She was attended by a man-servant, 
who led us to a remote chamber, very large 
and low. Its principal windows opened upon 
the court. It had several doors, none of 
which would lock ; each, in turn, during 
the night, was tried from without, partially 
opened, and hastily closed again with muffled 
apologies. Occasionally, we caught the 
sound of youthful voices. Otherwise our 
night was undisturbed and entirely com- 
fortable. We left early in the morning to 
be installed at the inn, without meeting the 
Syndic, whom we never saw, to our know- 
ledge. Later, when we heard that he was 
the happy father of eleven children, we 
understood better the nocturnal assaults of 
his household, so often attempted and so 
promptly suppressed. 

Our stay at Ardesio was too short. Many 
of its best excursions could not be at- 
tempted ; but the weather was of the fairest ; 
the days were long ; and we lived wholly in 

163 



Lands of Summer 

the open air. Thus we came to know famil- 
iarly the town itself, as well as the immediate 
neighborhood. We strolled through the 
flowering meadows of the eastern valley, by 
old water-mills, to a cavern on the height 
through which the stream tore its way in 
a boisterous cascade. The cyclamen grew 
wild upon the hills ; and by narrow paths 
the charcoal-burners staggered down under 
their loads, in single file, bringing full sacks 
to market. We rested in the shade, to look 
back at Ardesio's towers far below us, and 
hear the faint chiming of their bells. Then 
we went on higher yet, through a dark 
hamlet, where all the streets were stairs, to 
the divide overhead, beyond which other 
and wilder valleys led, by footpaths only, to 
the sequestered town of Ave. 

Up the Serio's western branch the foot- 
paths ran at a high level along walls of cliffy 
toward the mountain-amphitheatre. Time 
failed, unhappily, for the pursuit of all their 
stirring possibilities. The mountains, softly 

164 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

outlined and regular in form^ were unlike 
any others known to us ; yet, from the first, 
we seemed to know them well. In one of 
our walks the paradox suddenly grew ten- 
able. These were the mountains of certain 
old English prints and water-colors, dear to 
a former generation, — indelible imprints of 
our early childhood, dating from days gone 
by, when this whole region was the fashion- 
able haunt of English travellers. Railways 
changed all that, long since ; where they are 
not, primeval solitude is undisturbed. 

The Serio, itself, we followed up at the 
shore level for a few delightful miles ; as far as 
Gromo, a high-pitched town, still unspoiled 
within, but, without, much injured now by 
the central electric plant, which disseminates 
light through the valley. In this and other 
walks, the peasants whom we met often made 
advances, — friendly, yet perplexing also; 
for they stopped to entertain us with lively 
discourse in dialect, of which every word was 
incomprehensible. We could but acknow- 

165 



Lands of Summer 

ledge the good-will, thus implied, by help- 
less gesticulation, and pass on under a cloud 
of embarrassment. Going or coming, we 
always lingered on the Ponte di Brialto. 
There the whirling current was at its fiercest, 
and just above the eastern arch a row of 
antiquated mill-flumes shot into it showers 
of foam. From this central point the out- 
look comprehended all four valleys, Ardesio 
on its green height, the river coursing round 
it with ever-varying color and that relentless 
force of which we had been given fearful 
proof The bridge was haunted by the 
gnome-like figure of a man, who shuffled 
back and forth there, bent low under a 
heavy burden. Unlike the rest, he never 
spoke, never made an amicable sign, but 
regarded us, as he passed, savagely, with 
piercing eyes. We saw him first at dusk ; 
gray, ugly, deformed, a most uncanny crea- 
ture in the dim light, he looked like the 
evil spirit of the stream. Even the village 
innocent, who hovered persistently about 

i66 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

the fountain, seemed less of a lost soul 
than he. 

Our acquaintance at the inn was of a 
cheerier kind. We met there a native of the 
valley, who had been a traveller in his time 
and knew many lands ; yet all the truer to 
his own corner of earth, he returned to it an- 
nually, and had much to tell us of what lay 
just out of sight, beyond our range. Ever 
luring us onward, he enmeshed us in a net- 
work of enticing schemes which could only 
be woven into " such stuff as dreams are 
made on ; " for already we were turning back. 
We parted with mutual pledges to join 
forces in another year and explore the 
mountains thoroughly together. He and 
his family remained a little longer at Arde- 
sio ; while we, chartering a carriage, com- 
pleted our short circuit of the hills to Iseo 
and Bergamo. 

We started at five in the afternoon on the 
Feast of the Assumption, which had been 
celebrated all day long by much ringing of 

167 



Lands of Summer 

bells, and by a primitive fair, held in the 
open piazza above the Brialto bridge. The 
whole neighborhood had trooped into Ar- 
desio to attend the feast. All wore their 
best clothes, and brought their luncheons 
with them ; picnicking in odd corners, when 
meal-time came, over the watermelon, of 
which their last course seemed invariably 
to consist. The streets were still crowded, 
when, thus leaving Ardesio at its gayest, we 
drove south and east by way of Clusone, 
— a compact hill-town, with a mammoth 
church built high above the roofs on a stone 
platform, around which huge marble saints 
keep guard. 

We halted long enough to climb up 
among their pedestals, to see the church- 
interior, and overlook from its airy terrace 
the land that lay before us. Then we drove 
down into a strange valley, dotted with iso- 
lated hillocks, rising a hundred feet from 
the level plain like barrows of some extinct, 
giant race; and, out of it, into the ravine 

i68 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

of Borlezza, leading on toward Lovere, 
through a bleak landscape made doubly 
dreary by lowering skies. Thunder growled 
in them, and we sped on, hoping to escape 
the storm ; but long before we gained shel- 
ter, it burst upon us; we entered Lovere in 
a deluge, attended by many a lightning-flash 
and furious cannonade. Night had come on ; 
one moment the Lake of Iseo, brilliantly 
illumined, opened before us like a raging 
sea; the next, we were in Stygian darkness. 
At about eight we turned into the court of 
an inn, finding there good quarters in which 
to dine, "and sleep in spite of thunder." 
The tempest spent itself out in the night, 
before a calm, bright morning. 

Lovere, at the northern end of the lake, is 
"the place the most beautifully romantic I 
ever saw in my life '' of Lady Mary Wort- 
ley Montagu's description; a town, as she 
says, "near two miles long and the figure 
of a semi-circle, — a mixture of shops and 
palaces, gardens and houses, which ascend 

169 



Lands of Summer 

a mile high, in a confusion which is not dis- 
agreeable." While " the lake itself is differ- 
ent from any other I ever saw or read of, 
being the colour of the sea, rather deeper 
tinged with green." All these characteristics 
remain practically unchanged, after the hun- 
dred and fifty years that have elapsed since 
she thus set them down. A railway, to be 
sure, has crept up along the quay ; but it is 
a very sluggish, inoffensive railway of infre- 
quent trains and light traffic. The same 
primitive ferry-boat, which Lady Mary 
looked out upon, plies under its striped 
canopy across the sea-green water to the 
farther shore. The semi-circular figure is 
preserved intact, with its odd mixture of 
towers and palace-fronts, curving streets, 
gardens, gray walls, and hillside squares, all 
steeped in quietude. We explored them 
through that pleasant, summer morning; 
then, after the noon meal, we took the 
steamer for the lower end of the lake. 
The voyage was an affair of three hours, 

170 



Berga??20 and the Bergamasque Alps 

during which we touched at many villages 
on either hand, and at the central island. 
The Lake of Iseo, once high in favor, is 
now out of fashion, seldom visited by the for- 
eigner, — a happy circumstance that height- 
ens its peculiar charm. Only fifteen miles 
long, scarcely three miles broad at the widest 
point, and shut in by lofty mountains, it is 
one of the smallest as well as one of the 
loveliest among the Italian lakes ; but the 
agreeable disregard into which it has fallen 
of late years will soon be at an end ; for a 
new railway from Brescia into the Val Ca- 
monica is already in process of construction, 
piercing the lake's rocky eastern shore with 
a series of tunnels that must inevitably 
open it up again to the world's notice. On 
this day, except for our intrusion, the travel 
was purely local. 

The small communes stand sometimes at 
the water's edge, sometimes high above it. 
Tavernola, midway on the western shore, 
was the most noted of them ; but a year or 

171 



Lands of Summer 

two ago, a landslide descended upon it; and 
now its walls and terraces overhang the 
water, half shattered and deserted. 

On board, we fell in with a Brescian art- 
collector, who grew friendly and voluble 
when he found that we knew something of 
his native city. One of his chief interests 
Vv^as in the work of Vincenzo Foppa, the 
fifteenth-century Lombard painter, who, as 
he declared, has never yet received half the 
just meed of critical appreciation. Foppa's 
masterpiece, a beautiful Adoration of the 
Kings, hangs in the National Gallery ; one 
comes upon him at Milan, Bergamo, and 
other North Italian cities. Authentic exam- 
ples, however, are rare in both senses, and 
his name is unfamiliar to " the general." 
He awaits his fortunate hour, to be mono- 
graphed into fame, the world over ; and 
when it comes, our chance acquaintance will 
bring much fine discrimination to the front. 
He left us at Iseo, with good wishes, beg- 
ging us, as he went, to look him up in 

172 



Bergamo and the Bergamasque Alps 

Brescia and study the neglected master 
under his guidance. 

We had meant to dine in Sarnico, at the 
southern extremity of the lake ; but fate 
and the steamer-captain willed otherwise. 
The benevolent officer, who knew that we 
were booked for Bergamo, strongly urged 
us to take the steam-tram which was just 
about to start ; and he whisked our lug- 
gage into it before we had time to make a 
protest. In another moment we went gliding 
out of Sarnico into the open country. We 
blessed him for his forethought afterwards; 
for, had we waited in accordance with our 
plan, we must have taken the interesting 
journey of two hours entirely in the dark ; 
whereas, the land now looked its best all 
the way, in the favorable light of the late 
afternoon. A cool breeze refreshed us ; and, 
through it, we brushed by gardens, fields, 
and vineyards, in and out of parti-colored 
hamlets, stopping at villa gates and farm- 
house doors. The neighbors gathered in 

173 



Lands of Summer 

merry groups to meet their returning 
friends. The whole life of the province 
seemed revealed to us at this mellow time 
of day ; and no other conveyance would 
have brought us home to it thus closely 
and intimately. 

In good time for dinner, we came into 
Bergamo, and made our way to the inn. 
The landlord, who had himself devised our 
expedition, was enchanted at the success of 
it. He actually listened, when we talked ; 
and all his cheery satellites welcomed us 
like old friends. 



The Centenary of 

Alfieri at Asti 




The Centenary of 

Alfiein at Asti 

Italy holds her poets in grateful re- 
membrance. And since by tradition her poets 
are active patriots as well, they leave behind 
them a doubleclaim upon her memory which 
is always nobly recognized. Not only in her 
Valhalla of Santa Croce,at Florence, has she 
recorded their woes and their triumphs in 
splendid monuments of marble; but. also in 

177 



Lands of Summer 

the lesser provincial cities their statues are 
set up, to mark some accident of birth or 
fortune. Wherever their wandering feet once 
strayed, the association is revived to-day in 
lasting memorials. The Italians have the 
gift of emphatic terseness in inscriptions. 
And the foreign traveller, coming unexpect- 
edly upon one of these in some grass-grown 
square or empty street, reads the sculptured 
words with reverence, and recalls anew the 
long, patient struggle which led to the con- 
quest of Italian liberty. 

It was inevitable that the close of the first 
century following the death of Vittorio Al- 
fieri, — ^one of the "four minds, which, like 
the elements, might furnish forth creation," 
— whom Mazzini called the first modern 
Italian, should be marked by some fitting 
ceremonial; and the city of his birth, Asti, 
in Piedmont, naturally claimed the right to 
its observance. The date fixed was the hun- 
dredth anniversary of his death, October 8, 
1903. For months preceding it the authori- 

178 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

ties spared no pains of preparation for their 
festivity. 

Asti, a prosperous community of forty 
thousand inhabitants, flourishing amid its 
famous wine-growing district, stands pic- 
turesquely in the wide valley of the Tanaro, 
encircled by vine-clad hills. The ancient 
Asta, it was once a fortified stronghold; and 
though it has outgrown the old walls, portions 
of them remain, as well as some of the gates, 
which with many sturdy towers of fine pro- 
portion — the ornaments and landmarks of 
its intricate thoroughfares — give the city a 
mediaeval look, remote and distinctive. It 
is, however, to-day, alert, thriving; a garri- 
son town still, with fluttering bersaglieri^ who 
march briskly from barracks and parade to 
a very lively bugle quickstep; and its later 
distinction, born with Alfieri, has never been 
allowed to slumber. The long, busy Corso, 
winding from the Turin to the Alessandria 
gate, bears the poet's name; so does the vast, 
central, heart-shaped Piazza, midway in which 

179 



Lands of Summer 

stands his marble statue. The well-built the- 
atre is, of course, the Teatro Alfieri. On the 
market-place near by, the stir of small trade 
seems coupled with intelligent interest in lit- 
erature. Good books are displayed in the 
shop-windows. Everywhere, too, are signs 
of enlightened public spirit. There are no 
beggars in the streets; the poor are well con- 
sidered; the schools and hospitals are mod- 
ern buildings of good architectural effect; 
and, finally, the leading citizens manifest an 
open-handed munificence, broadly emulative, 
not only ready, but likewise eager, for prompt 
action in time of need. 

To one such citizen. Count Leonetto Ot- 
tolenghi, is due the external renovation of 
Alfieri's birthplace, a handsome eighteenth- 
century palace at a turn of the Corso, above 
mentioned. The poet's parents, as he writes 
in the opening sentence of his autobiography, 
were noble, upright, and well-to-do. Their 
stately apartments,carefully tended, havebeen 
kept intact, with all mural decorations, pic- 

i8o 



The Centenary of A (fieri at Asti 

tures, mirrors, furniture, even to that of the 
chamber where the son, Vittorio, was born, 
anno 1749, as recorded on a marble tablet in 
the wall above the bed. Nothing is changed 
within. But without, one end of the palace 
was formerly encumbered with unimportant, 
shabby buildings that now are swept away 
to make room for the beautiful little Piazza 
Umberto I, which an old sycamore tree 
overshadows; and there, during the last six 
months, the house was given a new facade, 
conforming to the old one. The scheme, 
thoughtfully planned, is justified by the re- 
sults, all in admirable taste. On the Piazza 
side have been inserted two inscriptions sup- 
plementing an older record upon the Corso. 
One of these is a remarkable quotation from 
Alfieri's ninety-second sonnet, written near 
the close of his life, wherein he predicts the 
gratitude of future generations. Convinced 
that this was sure to come, he expressed the 
conviction frankly. Already, he declares, 
" I hear them say : — 

181 



Lands of Summer 

^* ^ O Vate nostro in pravi 
Secoli nato, eppur create hai queste 
Sublimi eta che profetando andavi.' " ^ 

The implication of sublimity for the present 
moment in the choice of these ringing lines 
would be somewhat startling, perhaps, were 
it not that the entire sonnet, well known to 
Alfieri's countrymen, deals with the regen- 
eration of Italy, then but a forlorn hope, now 
fortunately realized. The second inscription, 
unveiled during the festal week, proclaims 
that these prophetic words of the poet are 
gratefully reiterated by a free, united people, 
one hundred years after his death. With this 
illuminating commentary, the unusual trib- 
ute seems felicitous and just. 

The date of the festival happily coin- 
cided this year with that of Asti's movable 
autu mnal feast, the vintage. Grapes and foam- 
ing must are her chief commercial resources ; 

^ Or, roughly translated into English blank verse: — 

O bard of ours, in the days 
of darkness born, thou didst indeed create 
This age sublime that well thy verse foretold ! 

182 



The Centenary of A [fieri at Asti 

as the crop goes, so goes Asti, according to 
a local by-word; and since the latest crop, 
though'of meagre quantity, proved excellent 
in quality, cheerfulness prevailed. The har- 
vesting was in progress when the memorable 
week of cloudless skies began ; and those who 
followed its details for the first time found 
them an unfailing source of pleasure. Daily, 
from dawn to dusk, a continuous procession 
of white oxen, bulls, or cows, yoked in pairs, 
circled round the great square, dragging loads 
of purple grapes along the Corso and its trib- 
utaries to every courtyard in the town. 

The carts, of uniform construction, resem- 
ble huge sarcophagi, and the load is heavy. 
A high wooden yoke, strapped to the horns 
of the animals, aids them in its draught. 
They are patient, gentle, slow, and need no 
urging; but fix watchful eyes a few paces in 
advance upon the boy who guides them, gen- 
erally by signs alone. When the load is 
hauled, they are unyoked to chew the cud in 
a corner of the court ; while a peasant, bare- 

183 



Lands of Summer 

footed and bare-legged, climbs into the cart 
to begin the laborious treading process, 
working his way down through the heap 
and occasionally refreshing himself with one 
of its topmost bunches as he goes. Soon his 
legs and feet are stained crimson by the juice, 
which pours out from the bottom of the cart 
through a wooden pipe into a tub placed to 
receive it. When the pipe runs dry, the 
crushed mass within is removed for further 
extraction in a wine-press ; and it is com- 
monly subjected to a third pressure for the 
thin wine of the contadini, called vinello. 

That is the primitive labor, which, during 
the first week of October, goes on in Asti's 
courts, making a series of genre pictures, 
irresistible to the stranger within her gates. 
The sunlight streams over red-tiled roofs 
and vine-covered walls upon the merry, 
trampling servitor and his attendants, upon 
the mild-eyed oxen and the bubbling wine- 
vat. All is cheer, friendliness, and courtesy. 
He who stops to look is urged to stay, to 

184 



'The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

try the fresh grapes or a glass of last year's 
wine; even to visit the cellar and the house- 
hold. If the stranger is an American, it will 
be assumed that Spanish is his native lan- 
guage ; for the North American is so rare 
a bird, that no one can remember when he 
last checked his hurried flight at Asti. 

With this animated background of excep- 
tional interest and beauty, the Alfieri feast was 
introduced, three days before its time, by an- 
other important ceremony, viz. : the unveil- 
ing of an equestrian statue of the late King 
Umberto, — the first put up in Italy, — in the 
new square which perpetuates his name. The 
bronze group, heroic in size, is a spirited 
work of the Piedmontese sculptor, Tabacchi ; 
facing it was a royal pavilion of crimson and 
gold, where in full general's uniform stood 
the Duke of Aosta, nephew of Umberto and 
first cousin to the present king; surround- 
ing him were the city dignitaries, the Syndic 
of Asti, Commendatore Bocca, the sculptor, 
and other distinguished guests. Two smaller 

185 



Lands of Summer 

pavilions, crowded with ladies gayly dressed, 
flanked the statue. The Italian colors flick- 
ered everywhere in the morning sunshine; 
and at the appointed hour troops of mili- 
tary and civic societies, bearing wreaths and 
banners, filed into the square to group them- 
selves in order about the pedestal. After 
presentations and addresses, happily short, 
the veil was withdrawn, the band struck up 
the royal march, the Duke, attended, moved 
slowly round the statue, inspecting it on all 
sides, stopping now and then for a word with 
some veteran standard-bearer, then drove 
off to breakfast down the decorated Corso. 
The populace retired for a time; but all that 
day and evening the contadini thronged in 
from the hills; until, after sunset, when the 
general illumination of the city began, the 
square and its adjacent streets became almost 
impassable, yet with no sign of disorder. 
The crowd, which included many women and 
small children, was well behaved, reverent, 
even, in its expression of patriotic enthusiasm. 

i86 



'The Centenary of Aljieri at Asti • 

For three days more the vintage pro- 
ceeded without interruption. Then, on the 
morning of the 8th, the birthplace was 
thrown open to visitors. The ground floor 
of the palace contains a small museum, and 
a library with some of the poet's manu- 
scripts ; but the true goal of pilgrimage lies 
in the series of rooms above, running the 
whole length of the piano nobile^ especially 
in the chamber where Alfieri first saw the 
light. There hangs the portrait, painted for 
his sister, in 1798, by his friend, Saverio 
Fabre. This picture, in fine condition, is 
a three-quarters length of the poet's figure, 
seated, with a red cloak draped about him 
and a beautiful intaglio set in a ring upon 
his hand. The pose is unconstrained, the 
expression thoughtful, dignified, sympa- 
thetic. More than any other existing like- 
ness it presents the lofty ambition and intel- 
lectual power of the man, — that, too, most 
vividly and attractively. So one would have 
him look, so one feels that he must have 

187 



Lands of Summer 

looked in the serenity of his later years. It 
is a genuine work of art, singularly refined 
and pleasing, from the hand of a painter 
otherwise little known. Alfieri's original 
letter to his sister, which accompanied the 
picture, is framed upon the wall beside it; 
and on the back of the canvas he wrote his 
translation of two lines from Pindar, ex- 
pressing life's evanescence, since man at his 
best is but a shadow and a dream. 

Aside from these rooms, the traces of 
Alfieri at Asti are few and far between. 
That is easily explained by the fact that he 
left his native city when he was only nine 
years old, — as it happened, never to return. 
The early chapters of the autobiography 
deal with his childhood there, its mishaps, 
its small failings, its punishments ; dwelling 
upon one of the last, which consisted in forc- 
ing him to wear his nightcap to church, — 
once to the small, unfrequented Carmine 
near his home, and again to the larger church 
of San Martino in the heart of the town. 

i88 



T^he Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

The penalty seems by no means harsh, yet 
it so distressed him that it was never again 
repeated. These two churches still remain, 
probably much as they were in Alfieri's 
time. There is also a sunny house with a 
walled garden, to which his mother removed 
after his father's death, — a house which the 
boy must have known. Certain of the sur- 
rounding streets undoubtedly retain the 
aspect familiar to him. Otherwise, the Mecca 
of the birthplace and its Kaaba, the birth- 
chamber, stand alone. 

On the evening of the 8th the city was 
again illuminated ; this time, in Alfieri's 
honor. Slender, graceful arches spanned the 
Corso at short intervals. These, adorned 
with the city arms, wreathed with pine, 
laurel, and clusters of palm-leaves, were so 
treated as to be decorative even by day. By 
night, aglow with thousands of tiny lamps 
in red, white, and green, the national colors, 
— some following the lines of the arch, 
others hanging from it in full, grape-like 

189 



Lands of Summer 

clusters, — they produced an effect which 
was the triumph of good taste in the em- 
ployment of simple means. The public 
buildings and private palaces blazed with 
light and color. Long festoons of lamps 
gleamed in the great Piazza, where the usual 
gas-jets were embellished with ornamental 
burners, and the statue stood out against a 
fiery arch, grander than all the rest, inscribed 
with the titles of the poet's tragedies. The 
view, either from the crowded pavement 
or from some upper window commanding 
square and Corso, was a wonder of fantastic 
gayety. Yet, in its way, nothing could have 
been less elaborate. Candles and colored 
glass, that was all ! but all was so well dis- 
posed as to give a definite impression of 
artistic skill, with no sense of overdoing. 

That night the key-note of the commem- 
oration was struck in the performance of 
" Saul " at the Teatro Alfieri. This tragedy 
is conceded to be the poet's master-work, — 
his battle-charger, as the Italians say ; and 

190 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

the conditions of its recital were wholly 
favorable. The theatre is airy and well ar- 
ranged ; graceful in its lines, of imposing 
size, yet not too large for comfort. Its five 
tiers were filled not only with the flower of 
Asti, but with visitors of note from all parts 
of Italy. Every tier bore a row of medal- 
lions descriptive of Alfieri's work. The 
curtain, by some local scene-painter, repre- 
sented his apotheosis, with Fame blowing 
her trumpet before him, and his tragic 
heroes and heroines grouped below in ap- 
propriate attitudes. 

Like most of Alfieri's plays, "Saul" holds 
strictly to the "unities," and has but one 
scene for its five acts: the camp of the Isra- 
elites at Gilboa on the last day of the king's 
life. The cast was a strong one. There are 
only six parts, three of these being compara- 
tively unimportant ; but all were well played. 
The Saul was Salvini ; the David, his oldest 
son, Gustavo, — an actor of long experience 
and the best possible training, — who has 

191 



Lands of Summer 

become a favorite with the Italian public, 
and is now famous at home and abroad. 

Saul does not appear in the first act, of 
which David is the dominant figure. It was 
seen at once that the son, apart from pro- 
fessional facility, has inherited many of the 
father's natural gifts. He is tall, handsome, 
graceful ; with a strong, full voice, perfectly 
controlled. The act, purely introductory, 
makes few emotional demands; but the 
part is a new one to him, and its unfolding 
aroused keen interest. At the close, he was 
heartily recalled. 

With Saul's entrance at the opening of 
the second act the strong scenes of the play 
begin, and thenceforward the interest ad- 
vances in dramatic crescendo. The old king, 
haunted by dreams of his approaching fate, 
passes swiftly from gentle melancholy to 
black despair, which is relieved by gleams 
of tenderness and hope's most flattering 
illusions. In one moment he is proud of 
his valorous son-in-law, David, the people's 

192 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

champion, and submits the conduct of the 
battle to his hands. In the next, he finds 
treachery in his nearest and dearest, in every 
friend an enemy ; and, jealous of David's 
prowess, turns upon him with blind, doting 
fury, — only to recall him to his arms. He 
bids David play upon his harp, to stir him 
with a war-song, to soothe him with a song 
of peace. Then, at a word, his fitful jealousy 
breaks forth once more, and he threatens 
the champion's life with drawn sword. 

In the fourth act the lightning of SauFs 
rage is launched against the priesthood. He 
condemns the high-priest Achimelech, in 
the fiercest terms, to a lingering death, and 
orders a general massacre of the people. 
Then his mind, giving way, is darkened by 
dreadful visions of the wrath to come. The 
victorious Philistine trumpet renews his 
present woes and restores his reason; but 
his sons are slain ; he dismisses his daughter 
and her attendants to a place of safety ; and 
in the final moment, left alone, he falls upon 



Lands of Summer 

his sword as the conquering host swarms 
into the camp, where Saul lies dead upon 
the field, — to the last, royal. 

It need hardly be said that Salvini finds 
in this varied conflict of the passions a part 
worthy of his genius, whereof all the exact- 
ing requirements seem amply fulfilled. In 
his crimson and gold garments, with crown, 
mantle, and jewelled girdle, his is a superb 
presence, kingly, oriental, barbaric; vigor- 
ous, yet restrained, through all its shifting 
phases, and always intensely human. The 
range of his unequalled voice was never more 
apparent. In a word, the part, as he plays it, 
can be compared only with his own Shake- 
spearean impersonations, — the Lear, the 
Macbeth, the Othello. It has long held its 
own with these in Italy. If its appeal to a 
cosmopolitan public is less direct, that is 
only because he has Alfieri behind him in 
it, and not Shakespeare. 

In his autobiography Alfieri described 
Saul as his favorite character, comprising 

194 



T^he Centenary of Aljieri at Asti 

every conceivable emotion ; but complained 
that he had never seen it properly inter- 
preted. During his Florentine life, occa- 
sionally he played the part himself, at his 
own house, before select audiences, in dilet- 
tante fashion ; and, painfully aware of his 
shortcomings, regretted that he was not an 
actor, since none then living could do it 
justice. The Saul of Asti, with all Italy in 
attendance, brought home, literally, the 
contrast between his day and ours ; and it 
also brought to mind some lines of a later 
poet, Calamati, which may be aptly quoted 
here, even in a halting English paraphrase. 
They were addressed to the writer's brother, 
from Marseilles, in 1886. 

^'Torquato, all in vain your love demands 
A labored tribute, at an exile's hands. 
To him whose gentle presence oversways 
The prostrate soul, and stills the note of praise. 
Salvini ! Glory of the art that blends 
All arts in one, and makes all nations friends ! 
Nor lips, nor hand, nor trembling pen of mine 

195 



Lands of Summer 

Shall speak for him whose speech is half divine ; 
Demand for that a more than mortal strain ; 
Bring Aliieri back to life again ! ' ' 

Throughout the trying scenes of the sec- 
ond and third acts, Salvini the father was 
ably seconded by the son as the mystical 
David, of whom Saul bitterly inquires why 
he so often affronts his king with the name 
of God. The part, though sympathetic, pre- 
sents formidable dangers of exaggeration on 
the heroic side, on the sentimental one of 
mawkishness ; between which Scylla and 
Charybdis the younger Salvini held his 
course with unerring skill. The righteous 
indignation of his appeal for justice was 
manly and impressive, without a trace of 
rant ; and the long, difficult passage of the 
songs, recited, as ordered by Alfieri, to a 
harp accompaniment, was splendidly sus- 
tained. A modern spirit of realism, idealized 
and governed by fine traditions of the past, 
warranted his national fame as the leading 
tragic actor of his day and generation. After 

196 



T^he Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

the third act, his place, before the curtain 
and behind it, was at his father's side. 

On the following morning a dramatic con- 
vention met in a small hall of the old Mu- 
nicipal Palace. All persons interested were 
asked to attend it without formality, and 
the room was well filled by a representative 
company of authors, actors, and officers of 
various literary societies. The elder Salvini 
was chosen president by acclamation. He 
opened the convention with a paper on a 
proposed popular theatre, to consist of four 
companies qualified to perform the master- 
pieces of dramatic literature, new and old, 
in the larger Italian cities, the theatre to 
receive a state subsidy, and to be directed 
by a competent commission; in its scope to 
be artistic and educational, with all per- 
formances at moderate prices. The paper 
ended in a consideration of the matter on 
its practical side. The ambitious project was 
loudly applauded, and speeches in favor of 
it were made by Count Angelo De Guber- 

197 



Lands of Summer 

natisj of Rome, and Professor Molineri, of 
Milan ; the latter going so far as to suggest, 
then and there, a number of names for 
the commission. The suggestions, however, 
were not adopted, the convention content- 
ing itself with a general approval. 

All this had a sound pathetically familiar 
to American ears. We, too, long for a the- 
atre conforming to canons of taste, from 
which all question of money-making shall 
be excluded, — have longed for it, indeed, 
these many years. We meet in a limited 
circle to applaud, discuss, and pass good 
resolutions; but the scheme, undeveloped, 
germ-Uke, is still in its earliest stages. A 
general approval of the few is all that has 
been attained. 

At the afternoon session the convention 
listened to interesting discourses on theatri- 
cal subjects from Professor Molineri and 
others. Then, after a complimentary tele- 
gram to the retired tragic actress, Ristori, 
it adjourned to a banquet, where the play- 

198 



The Centenary of Aljieri at Asti 

ers of the night before were welcomed by 
the Syndic. This was followed, in the the- 
atre, by the reading of " Sylla/* an unfin- 
ished play of the late Pietro Cossa, whose 
^' Nero '' and other historical tragedies earned 
for him the title of the modern Alfieri. The 
reader, Cossa's friend, Angelo Pasetti, held 
his audience for two hours with this frag- 
ment; a notable feat, considering the Italian 
temperament, within walls that had last 
echoed the voice of Salvini. So closed the 
second day, an off-day comparatively, yet 
full of new interest to the looker-on in Asti. 
The third day began with the unveiling, 
in the public garden, of a monument to a 
native philanthropist, Secondo Boschiero, 
which drew out a long procession of work- 
ing men and women. Later, the Syndic re- 
ceived the delegates from Montpellier, in 
France, where are preserved certain of Alfi- 
eri's books, manuscripts, and other memo- 
rials. These passed bv the poet's will to his 
friend, the painter Fabre, who transferred 

199 



Lands of Summer 

them in due course to Montpellier, his 
own native city. The collection is there trea- 
sured religiously. The delegates brought an 
album of photographic specimens from it 
and a complete catalogue to Asti; and Asti 
returned the compliment with a bronze 
medallion, cast in honor of the event; then 
feasted and toasted the French guests cere- 
moniously, escorting them afterward to the 
theatre, for the performance of "Filippo." 

This early work, dealing with an episode 
in the life of Philip II of Spain, seems defi- 
cient in action, verbose, dry, and dull to the 
casual reader ; but Alfieri wrote for the 
stage, not the closet; and the play gained so 
much in performance as to cause agreeable 
surprise. Some of its scenes moved with 
a swift intensity, suggesting the modern 
French drama of intrigue; and though the 
final act, with dagger and poison bowl both 
dragged to the front, became excessive in its 
gloom, the production as a whole proved 
extremely interesting. Unity of place was 

200 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

discarded in it for a series of rich interiors, 
which, neither tawdry nor overcrowded, were 
a lesson in scene-painting; and it was splen- 
didly costumed. The cast had no great 
names; but the chief actor, De Sanctis, if 
not divinely gifted, is able and intelligent; 
heavily weighted with the part of Filippo, 
a strong study in jealous egotism, he bore 
his burden manfully; and the supporting 
players at least did not offend. The audi- 
ence, clearly, could not forget "Saul;'' yet, 
willing to give encouragement, it was well 
disposed and never bored, generous in its 
applause to the end. 

The last day of the festival opened with 
a civic reception to the Minister of Public 
Instruction, Signor Nasi, who represented 
the Italian Government; and at half-past 
ten all invited guests assembled in the 
theatre for the commemorative oration of 
Tommaso Villa. The scene was brilliant. 
Celebrities and officials occupied the stage, 
where on one side stood a bust of Alfieri, 

20I 



Lands of Summer 

crowned with laurel ; on the other, the 
speaker's desk ; and the auditorium was 
crowded to the doors. The Minister, Nasi, 
in an introductory address of welcome, 
declared that the honors to Alfieri were 
accorded not alone on literary and academic 
grounds, but had a deeper national signifi- 
cance, as demonstrated by the character of 
the audience. The presence of the delegates 
from Montpellier suggested a happy refer- 
ence to the cordial relations between his 
own country and France, which, at the mo- 
ment, was preparing to receive the Italian 
sovereigns. He then introduced the orator, 
whose discourse was a rapid survey of Al- 
fieri's life, character, and work, simple and 
forcible in its delivery. He reviewed the 
plays in detail, not attempting to disguise 
their faults, but dwelling upon their politi- 
cal import, always foremost in the mind 
of Alfieri, who was an apostle of freedom. 
In this underlying motive he found the 
source of their strength and their defects. 

202 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

The oration was appreciative, yet finely 
critical, — admirably human, as was said by 
one of the audience afterward. It stirred 
the assembly to an interest as genuine and 
unaffected as the discourse itself. 

In the afternoon the Minister was re- 
ceived at the birthplace by Count Otto- 
lenghi and the Syndic; and he proceeded 
thence to the formal opening of a new 
asylum for poor children, named in honor 
of Queen Margherita, the widow of Um- 
berto. In his inaugural address he paid Asti 
well-merited compliments upon the conduct 
of her charities and her wisdom in providing 
amply for the education of the poor. Then 
came the customary banquet, at w^hich the 
indefatigable Syndic presided. This time 
the invitations included all visiting strangers ; 
and in the large hall of the Albergo Reale 
all the wines of Asti flowed continuously. 
There were speeches by the Syndic, the 
Minister ; a salutation from Florence ; a 
response from Montpellier. The proceed- 

203 



Lands of Summer 

ings closed with the sending of telegraphic 
messages to Ristori and the poet Carducci ; 
after which, along the illuminated Corso, all 
hurried to the theatre for the last of the fes- 
tal performances. 

The play was " Orestes/' with the younger 
Salvini in the title-part; Salvini the elder, 
as Pylades ; and an actress of note, Giacinta 
Pezzana, especially engaged for Clytem- 
nestra ; the strongest cast, in short, which 
Italy could furnish. 

The tragedy stands next to " Saul " 
among Alfieri's works in popular estima- 
tion. Oftener played than that, it is the 
better known of the two ; yet there is a 
wide gap between them. In " Orestes " the 
author challenges comparison with the mas- 
terpieces of Greek tragedy, and the test is 
too severe. It is a play of fine passages, with 
a very effective last act, monotonous and 
slow of action in the earlier scenes ; for the 
leading part, brilliant and heroic as it is, 
lacks the quick variety of " Saul." None 

204 



The Centenary of Alfieri at Asti 

the less, the performance must always be 
interesting in good hands, and at Asti it 
moved the audience profoundly. 

Pylades, throughout, is a secondary fig- 
ure, far too slight for Salvini. He made 
the most of his opportunities, yet these 
were so few as to keep him always in the 
background ; but what a background ! His 
speechless horror over Clytemnestra's death 
at the hand of Orestes had a world of ex- 
pression in it ; and the last line of the 
tragedy, — 

'' Oh, hard 
Is cruel fate' s inevitable law ! ' ' 

on his lips, was awful in its solemnity. 

Gustavo Salvini found in Orestes a harder 
task than in David. If not infused with the 
highest imagination, it is still a most ex- 
acting part ; its deficiencies are difficulties. 
More, therefore, was required, and more 
accomplished. In form and bearing the actor 
seemed an ideal presentment of the Greek 
hero. As the play advanced, the impression, 

205 



Lands of Summer 

made before, of his artistic resources, natu- 
ral and acquired, was confirmed. In the final 
scene he surpassed himself. His agonized 
reiteration of "I, a parricide?" stirred the 
heart, and the accompanying look of terror, 
as if the Furies were already at his back, 
was a stroke of genius. No further proof 
of his rare gift is needed. 

The city gave laurel wreaths to both 
players, who were recalled again and again. 
Then the great audience slowly dispersed, 
under the dying lamps of the last illumina- 
tion. The festival of Asti was over ; but 
vibrations from it spread throughout Italy 
in widening circles. At Turin, in the fol- 
lowing week, " Saul " was played again at 
the Carignano Theatre ; a bronze bust of 
Alfieri was unveiled on the theatre facade 
by the Duke of Aosta ; there was a com- 
memorative address by Panzacchi. At Flor- 
ence, delegates from Asti decorated Alfieri's 
tomb, in Santa Croce, and the house where 
he died, on the Lungarno, with due cere- 

206 



"The Centenary of A [fieri at Asti 

mony. At Florence^ too, occurred a final 
performance of " Saul/' after an oration by- 
Del Lungo. This proved also to be the 
final appearance upon the stage of the elder 
Salvini, who, without formal leave-taking, 
has lived since then in honorable retirement. 
Alfieri, in a mournful mood, reminded 
Asti once that she had given him a cradle ; 
and though a grave could not be hers to 
give, since fate had called him forth, he 
bade her take his lessons to her heart. She 
has done her best to obey him. 



The TVraith of 

a Ducal City 




X. 



The JVraiih of 

a Ducal City 

We were moved to visit it by a cap- 
tivating article in an old number of " Cosmo- 
polis/' from the pen of that high authority, 
Charles Yriarte. At the moment of our em- 
barkation for Italian shores, a friend sent 
us the magazine, suggesting that we should 
make acquaintance with the mysterious Sab- 
bioneta, — for that was the name of the 

211 



Lands of Summer 

place ; and the chronicle proved so inter- 
esting that we at once determined to follow 
it up. The accomplished historian's story 
was a long one, told in French with much 
minuteness of detail. Briefly, the main facts 
are these: — 

Duke Vespasian Gonzaga, of the line 
that ruled so long in Mantua, was related 
to the brilliant Isabella d' Este, whom, 
however, he could have known only in his 
childhood. In 1551, a dozen years after 
Isabella's death, he came of age, and mar- 
rying his cousin, Donna Diana, estab- 
lished himself on his estate, twenty miles 
southwest of Mantua, where, later, his own 
city, Sabbioneta, sprang into being. He 
developed early into a lawless, ill-tempered 
tyrant, neglectful of his wife, who, unhap- 
pily, entered upon an intrigue with the 
Duke's secretary, one Raineri, as Vespasian 
soon discovered. He caused the secretary 
to be assassinated; then locked his wife 
into a chamber with her lover's body and a 

212 



'The Wraith of a Ducal City 

bottle of poison. After lingering there for 
two days, she killed herself 

The remembrance of these horrors was 
too much even for Vespasian, and he aban- 
doned the scene of them, — but only for a 
time. In 1560 he returned to Sabbioneta, 
full of projects for constructing there a city, 
which should be a lesser Athens. The scheme 
was duly carried out by the foremost archi- 
tect of the day, Bartolommeo Cattaneo, a 
follower of Bartolino di Novara, builder 
of the still existent fortress-castles in Man- 
tua and Ferrara. At Vespasian's command, 
within a vast, moated fortification, Catta- 
neo laid out streets, squares, and pleasure- 
grounds, where palaces, theatres, churches, 
colonnades, and triumphal arches grew under 
his hand with amazing swiftness. As the 
work drew near its end, the country-folk 
were forced by ducal edict to forsake their 
homes and people the new, empty capital. 

There Vespasian lived and reigned for 
years in great magnificence. Constituting 

ai3 



Lands of Summer 

himself a patron of the arts, he collected 
Greek and Roman marbles, and adorned 
the stately vistas, as well as his own pro- 
spective mausoleum, with the best sculpture 
of the time. His unwilling citizens lacked 
neither bread nor circuses ; but to the last 
he remained a tyrant, feared and dreaded. 
His second wife did not live long; she bore 
him two children, a daughter and a son; 
the latter he kicked to death in a blind fit 
of rage. His third marriage fortunately 
proved childless. In 1590 he died, leaving 
no successor, and all the joyless mirth died 
with him. The people fled from the gilded 
prison-house which they had always hated, 
back into their own free air, rejoicing in 
release. Sabbioneta stood alone, magnifi- 
cent, with empty courts and grass-grown 
streets, fortified against all but neglect and 
the treacherous enmity of time. Her glory 
had departed ; and no man ever dreamed of 
reviving it. 

Such is the substance of Yriarte's tale, 

214 



The Wraith of a Ducal City 

which he embellished with many minor 
points of interest, historical and descriptive; 
but in all that concerns the present state of 
Sabbioneta, it is vague and shadowy — left 
so, perhaps, by design, the better to awaken 
curiosity. Our own, certainly, woke as we 
read it, stirring us to personal investigation. 
What trace, we wondered, could be found 
to-day of all Vespasian's arbitrary pomp, 
after three hundred years and more of aban- 
donment? The only way to discover that 
was to go over the ground ourselves. 

No sooner was the plan conceived, than 
all things seemed perversely inspired to 
prevent it. One delay led to another, and 
when, ^t last, we reached Mantua late in 
the season, the days were exasperatingly 
short, the autumn rains had begun. More- 
over, the steam-tram upon which we counted 
had taken up its winter schedule, wherein 
no trains served us. Even if the sun were 
to shine, it could only be a bright spot in 
the sky, without warmth ; and a drive of 

215 



Lands of Summer 

four hours in the rain is dreary to contem- 
plate. There was much to see in Mantua^ 
though we had seen it all before under better 
conditions. We postponed Sabbioneta again 
and again. 

There came a finer morning, when we 
actually ordered the horses. They drew up 
at the door, and rain fell in torrents. We 
sent them away, dismissing all idea of the 
excursion for that day, at least. Then the 
sudden shower blew over; the clouds drifted 
apart and a large patch of blue sky appeared 
among them. It was still only nine o'clock ; 
we redemanded our expansive " barouche- 
landau,'' which, if worst came to worst, could 
be made water-tight at a moment's notice. 
The stout white horses curveted and pranced, 
as we dashed down the Corso to the admi- 
ration of all beholding Mantuans. Immedi- 
ately, our sign of promise was withdrawn. 
Before we reached the new park just outside 
the city-gate, the blue sky had vanished ; and 
we saw it no more. 

216 



'The Wraith of a Ducal City 

The autumn morning, as we drove out 
into it, grew unutterably dank and chill. 
The reedy fens that surround Mantua have 
a plaintive melancholy, depressing to the 
spirit, even when they gleam in summer 
sunshine. The waters, enlivened by no sail, 
are waters of stagnation, breeding thoughts 
of malaria and ague, with a consequent de- 
sire for speedy flight. We sped from them, 
that day, swiftly enough, along a straight, 
interminable turnpike, from which flat land- 
scape expanded on either side in unrelieved 
monotony. Gray sign-posts, recording kilo- 
metres passed and kilometres to come, were 
the only landmarks for a long distance. The 
clouds hung low ; the raindrops spattered 
down. We put up the top, and were pro- 
tected not only from them, but also from 
the disheartening prospect. Not so with 
our vetturino. Soon, he became little better 
than " a dripping sop " — to quote the im- 
perishable landlady of Dickens's unfinished 
romance. Luckily, he was the soul of good- 

217 



Lands of Summer 

nature, thriving upon adventure, which, 
presently, overtook him in a mild form. 
We had passed through several small vil- 
lages, too mean and unimportant for record 
upon any map. Then, in a larger one called 
Commessaggio, we lost the way, which, hith- 
erto, had presented no alternatives. We 
floundered off in fog and mire on a wrong 
course, all of which it was necessary to re- 
trace. It appeared as if we never should 
have done with Commessaggio. 

Once more in the open country, we whirled 
on by other villages, each of which, in turn, 
we mistook for our elusive destination. At 
last, through the misty atmosphere, we 
caught a glimmer of far-off domes and 
towers which, really, were Sabbioneta's, as 
the guide-posts showed. About one o'clock 
we drew near its high brick walls ; and, 
crossing a bridge over the sluggish moat, 
we plunged through a monumental gateway 
along a broad, paved street, vacant, except 
for a few stray soldiers of the garrison 

218 



The Wraith of a Ducal City 

dismally quartered upon this outlying 
post. We came to one wide, lonely square ; 
then, to another ; and, turning from that 
into a squalid courtyard, drew up at the 
inn. 

It seemed to us, as we alighted, the most 
hopeless, uninviting place of entertainment 
in the world. Its ground floor was chiefly 
devoted to a dingy taproom, full of guz- 
zling contadini ; but the landlord and his 
wife were heartily glad to see us. They 
placed a small inner room at our disposal, 
and started a roaring fire of brushwood 
there. Our spirits rose with the tempera- 
ture ; we grew comfortably warm, for the 
first time that day. The question of food 
was considered so carefully as to induce 
confidence, by no means misplaced. They 
brought steaming soup, well seasoned ; we 
had eggs, macaroni, and cheese in abun- 
dance ; the wine was of excellent quality. 
When all was over, we called for the bill ; 
and they footed up one absurdly, patheti- 

219 



Lands of Summer 

cally small. Thackeray, in his ^^ Memorials 
of Gormandising/' enjoins upon the trav- 
eller the keeping of a dinner-journal for 
future reference, therewith to revivify the 
purest and most precious enjoyments of 
which life is capable. Had we done so, that 
surprising repast of Sabbioneta would stand 
high up on the list. We need, in fact, no 
spur to its remembrance, which quickens 
at the thought, reproducing every detail 
of our refreshment at the Albergo del Sole, 
without such artificial aid. The peasants 
murmur behind the door, the fog drifts 
past the window-panes, the rain drips from 
the eaves, while the fire crackles on the 
hearth-stone, and we linger in its glow, for- 
getting that, thus far, this is all we know 
of Sabbioneta, that time is short, and that 
there is work to do. 

We went out on foot, finding that the 
rain had ceased, — a happy respite, granted 
for the remainder of our stay. We began 
with Vespasian's palace, at one end of the 

220 



The Wraith of a Ducal City 

Piazza Ducale, the first of the two squares 
through which we had driven from the 
gate. It is a fine Renaissance building, with 
an imposing entrance, where the elaborate 
decorations have been somewhat mutilated; 
but the interior, devoted now to official 
purposes, so far as the main features go, 
remains unaltered. In each corner of the 
high central hall stands upon its pedestal 
the equestrian figure of a ducal Gonzaga, 
carved in wood. These efiigies are of nat- 
ural size, well modelled, carefully colored. 
The four Gonzagas bear thus a startling 
relation to life ; and they keep impressive 
guard over the stately apartment, which 
otherwise is empty. A smaller hall, leading 
from it to the council-chamber, has stucco- 
reliefs by Alberto Cavalli in the style of 
Primaticcio, who, under Giulio Romano's 
direction, designed much of the ornament 
in the fantastic Palazzo del Te at Mantua. 
Here the work includes a portrait- frieze 
of the Gonzaga family, most curious and 

221 



Lands of Summer 

interesting. Another hall, used as a boys' 
school, was opened for our study of its 
carved chimney-piece and superb gilded 
ceihng. We interrupted a recitation. The 
teacher and his pupils, rising as we came in, 
stood respectfully during our visit, which, 
owing to this embarrassing bit of deference, 
we made very short. 

We turned back into the streets. Every- 
where they retain their original lines and 
are still architecturally effective, but pain- 
fully silent. Roaming on along these sol- 
emn ways, we came out into the Piazza 
d' Armi, where Vespasian was accustomed 
to hold public reviews, at one of which 
occurred the quarrel with his only son that 
resulted in the boy's death. The great, 
deserted parade-ground is overgrown with 
grass. A marble column, supporting a statue 
of Pallas, stands at the eastern end ; across 
the other is the low facade of the summer- 
palace, approached through a noble ar- 
cade of fifty arches along the southern side 

222 



The Wraith of a 'Ducal City 

of the square. Above the arches is a sup- 
plementary covered story, into which we 
climbed. It contains but one apartment, a 
narrow gallery, well lighted and richly dec- 
orated, running the whole length of the 
arcade. This was designed for the Duke's 
collection of sculpture, now dispersed, much 
of it having been transferred to the Civic 
Museum in Mantua. The empty treasure- 
house, sadly defaced, is all to be seen here, 
but that is splendid even in its ruin. 

We passed on into the palace itself, which 
still glowed with remnants of the former 
splendor, — in its long series of once gor- 
geous rooms and galleries, where contadini 
now make their beds under the peeling 
frescoes and tarnished cornices. These heirs 
of Vespasian Gonzaga showed us about with 
momentary pride in the squandered wealth 
of their inheritance, that avails them little. 
Four low walls and a thatched roof would 
serve their domestic purposes much better. 
The summer-palace, slowly disintegrating, 

223 



Lands of Summer 

must be, in the best of seasons, an uncon- 
genial abode. 

In a side street stands the principal the- 
atre, one of Vespasian's latest additions to 
the city, finished shortly before his death. It 
was built after the manner of ancient the- 
atres by Scamozzi, the successor of Palladio. 
Thus it resembles the more famous one at 
Vicenza, of Palladian design, which Sca- 
mozzi completed, a few years earlier ; but 
this of Sabbioneta is, really, the finer of the 
two. Its lines are freer and ampler than the 
other's. The simple decorative detail, spar- 
ingly employed, is of great beauty ; and the 
whole interior, in good preservation, forms 
a well-nigh perfect example of the style. It 
is used to this day by strolling players, who 
contrive, occasionally, to collect an audi- 
ence from the scanty population, reinforced 
by the exiled garrison. The stage, when we 
saw it, showed signs of a recent performance. 

The most important of the churches is 
Santa Maria Incoronata, near the Piazza 

224 



The Wraith of a Ducal City 

Ducale, — a domed structure, massive as a 
cathedral, finely proportioned, but, exter- 
nally, gaunt and bare, meagre and cold 
within. All its interest lies, as it were, in a 
nutshell, — the small side-chapel where Ves- 
pasian, with wise forethought, set up his 
own tomb. No one else, surely, would have 
provided such a monument to do honor to 
his bones. They are inclosed in a marble 
sarcophagus, surmounted by a bronze hel- 
met. In a niche above is placed his portrait- 
statue, a seated figure of heroic size, in 
bronze. He is attired like a Roman em- 
peror. His bearded face has an imperious 
expression, and his right hand is outstretched 
in a gesture of command. The Duke prob- 
ably looks his best in this commemorative 
likeness ; if so, he can hardly have been 
endowed with the fatal gift of beauty. Alle- 
gorical statues in marble occupy adjoining 
niches. The sculptor was Leoni, of Arezzo, 
who, obviously, had seen Michael Angelo's 
Medici tombs in the sacristy of San Lorenzo 

225 



Lands of Summer 

at Florence, and remembered them not un- 
favorably. His work, though reminiscent 
of the immortal Florentine, has individual 
dignity too, apart from its historic value. 

This was our last impression of Sabbio- 
neta. We left Vespasian to his ostentatious 
repose ; and came out under lowering clouds 
that were brimful of rain, hurrying into our 
carriage just in time to escape it. Making 
off across the wilderness, we looked back 
at the city walls, dimly visible through a 
fog-wreath which soon enshrouded them. 
Showers played about us intermittently ; the 
light waned ; before our return-drive was half 
over, it went out. The last two hours of 
turnpike were long ones, passed in total 
darkness. The outward drive had been 
dreary, but this was drearier still. We 
reached the Golden Eagle at Mantua, not 
only depressed, but chilled, also, to the 
bone. It seemed almost needful to seek 
some late counterpart of Romeo's apothe- 
cary for an exhilarating restorative; but the 

226 



^he Wraith of a Ducal City 

inn-keeper had lighted our lamp ; had kin- 
dled a fire, too, in the pillar of cement that 
he called our stove. We clung to that till 
warmth returned. Dinner cheered us. We 
had triumphed over the elements, had 
marked down Yriarte's quarry, and had 
seen Sabbioneta for ourselves. Discomfort 
dropped to its properly insignificant second- 
ary place. In the foreground of our recol- 
lection rose, transfigured, only the happier 
things. 



Life on a 

Tuscan Farm 




\ 



Life on a 

Tuscan Farm 



The farm lies in the heart of the 
wine-growing district known as the Monti 
del Chianti, lying between Florence and 
Siena, — a tract of wild and beautiful country 
some thirty miles long and almost as wide. 
There are no railways through it, and it 
remains practically unknown to the travel- 
ler, for there are no towns of importance, 

231 



Lands of Summer 

no sights to turn him that way. The artistic 
treasures of San Gimignano,Volterra, Monte 
Oliveto, etc., lie to the south and west of 
the Siena Hne, whose slow accommodation 
trains are a constant source of profanity to 
all who travel by it. The Chianti wine has 
long been famous, and it all comes from this 
district, which is a succession of large estates, 
intersected by good carriage-roads, its south- 
ern slopes devoted to the grape and olive, 
the northern ones covered with a growth of 
chestnut, oak, and pine, amid dense thickets 
of underbrush, heather, and broom. 

To reach the farm, we took a carriage at 
Siena and drove north for two hours, plun- 
ging first into the valley below the walls of 
the hill-city, through the scattered villages 
of the outskirts, and then steadily ascend- 
ing by the post-road that winds up to Va- 
gliagli, a little town perched upon a rocky 
height in the midst of the farming country. 
Vineyards and olive orchards soon sur- 
rounded us, and for some time the only 

232 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

houses to be seen were the rough stone 
dwelHngs of the contadini standing far apart 
upon the hillsides. Where the plantations 
border the road, they are dotted here and 
there with small signs bearing the name of 
the owner or of his estate, prohibiting shoot- 
ing and warning off trespassers. Occasion- 
ally, the way was overshadowed for a mile or 
so with thick groves of forest-trees, through 
which our view of the distant landscape wid- 
ened at every turn; until, skirting one of the 
larger estates, — Scopeto, — we commanded 
half the horizon, and, looking back, could see 
the towers of Siena silhouetted against the 
sky. Just beyond that point a semi-circular 
terrace, with stone seats, jutted out over the 
valley, and opposite this, across the road, 
was an ornamental gateway, through which, 
at the end of a long avenue, appeared the 
manor-house of Scopeto, an imposing struc- 
ture of stone and stucco as large as a French 
chateau, but in style distinctly modern. The 
method here employed of combining house, 

^3 



Lands of Summer 

avenue, gate, and terraced point of view into 
one architectural effect is common to the 
whole region, but this was our first example 
of it. 

The Scopeto property stretched off on 
either side for a long distance ; then we 
passed a number of smaller places, detached 
houses or villas, with the outlying huts of 
their contadini ; and at a turn of the road, 
across a deep ravine, had a first, far-off 
view of our destination, — the manor-house 
of Dievole, A little farther on, the town of 
Vagliagli came in sight, a mile away ; and 
at this point, where the first of the Dievole 
sign-boards cropped up, we turned sharply 
to the right and entered its outer avenue, 
a straight and narrow way, nearly half a 
mile in length, along a ridge at the top of 
the ravine. 

The avenue is distinguished by a serried 
rank of fine old cypress trees, which at the 
end break into a semi-circle around the usual 
terraced outlook. Thence, through a gate, 

234 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

the inner avenue follows a gentle downward 
slope to the edge of a cliff, upon which stand 
the house and its dependencies, — stables, 
storehouses, workshops, grape and olive 
presses, a private chapel and its campanile, 
grouped together in an irregular cluster, with 
a formidable array of roofs, walls, grates, 
and terraces, suggesting a mediaeval fortress. 
Some portions of the main building, un- 
doubtedly, date from the sixteenth century ; 
but alterations due to successive changes of 
ownership have modernized it. As it now 
stands, it is simply a rambling country- 
house, admirably placed, turning its long 
stuccoed facade to the south and substan- 
tially built to withstand a possible earth- 
quake, with stone staircases and long, 
intricate passages, where even in broad 
daylight it is easy to go astray. 

The season was late October and, as our 
host told us, the vintage was just over. The 
grape-juice stood, already undergoing its 
first fermentation processes, in the huge 



Lands of Summer 

casks of the storehouses; but two long 
pergolas had been left ungathered for our 
benefit ; and we were led out under their full 
white clusters to the garden at the southern 
end of the cliff. The view down the valley 
was superb; and all before^ behind, on either 
hand, as far as the eye could reach, belonged 
to Dievole. Briefly, it was explained that 
the estate is shaped like an hour-glass, into 
the neck of which we now looked south- 
ward ; that it consisted not of one, but of 
twenty farms, each a separate establishment, 
designated by an individual name. That 
nearest roof on the height to the west was 
called La Casetta ; the speck on the plain 
below was Valli ; the southernmost point 
visible had been christened, ages ago, the 
New Farm, and still kept the name, although 
it had been handed down from father to son 
in the same family of contadini through four 
centuries. 

According to traditional custom, which 
still prevails in Tuscany, each farm is let 

236 



Life on a 'Tuscan Farm 

to a peasant, who is thus provided with a 
home, and pays his rental in half the farm 
product. He brings up his family there, 
and does his best to have a large one, keep- 
ing the boys at home, if possible, so that 
there are often three generations under his 
roof. The conduct of the whole estate is 
intrusted to an overseer, or fattore^ who 
supervises the work, collects the rents, makes 
repairs, settles all claims or disputes, and, 
representing the owner in his absence, is a 
kind of animated buffer between him and 
the contadino. The position is one of great 
responsibility, most difficult to fill accept- 
ably, full of temptation to take undue ad- 
vantage on one side or the other; and out of 
it has sprung the familiar Tuscan proverb: 

'' Fammi fattore un anno, 
Se saro povero — mio danno ! ' ' 

Or, in an English equivalent: — 

Make me fattore for a year. 
And for my pocket — never fear ! 

237 



Lands of Summer 

The incumbent leads a fine, out-of-door 
life, passing from one point to another in 
his tour of inspection, generally on foot, 
with a gun slung over his shoulders to bag 
any game that may start up. The present 
fattore of Dievole is a strong, rosy-cheeked 
fellow of thirty or so, active and alert, hav- 
ing a very intelligent look in his bright 
black eyes and a sufficiently good address ; 
but the slightest allusion to him in the 
course of our visit brought the unflattering 
proverb to our host's lips with a depreca- 
tory shrug of the shoulders. 

At one end of the garden terrace was a 
low stone shed, open on all sides, where, 
upon mats woven of reeds, grapes were 
slowly drying in layers, exposed to light and 
air, but shielded from the sun. These are 
used to form // governo of the wine, as it is 
called, and, stirred into the fermenting juice 
after ten days, give body and color to the 
new vintage. When all processes are com- 
plete, this is laid down in barrels, and kept 

238 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

a year or two to get into condition. The 
wine which we drank daily was four years old 
and of fine quality, like a full-flavored Bor- 
deaux, unfortified, with no headache in it. 

Just below us an olive orchard stretched 
away into the ravine. The trees were full of 
fruit, already turned dark, approaching ma- 
turity. As soon as the vintage is over, prep- 
arations for the olive-crushing begin, and 
we were taken to the building devoted to 
this, called the frantoio^ half-way down the 
hill, where the mysteries of oil-making were 
fully described and illustrated. 

The olives, stones and all, are first crushed 
in a stone mill run by ox-power. The mass 
of pulp is then transferred in flat wicker 
baskets to the torchio^ or oaken press, from 
which the oil oozes into a vat below. The 
presses at Dievole are very old, elaborately 
carved with the arms and devices of some 
early padrone. Tremendous pressure is ap- 
plied through a primitive capstan arrange- 
ment, which the men work by heavy wooden 

239 



Lands of Summer 

levers, walking round and round on the 
stone floor in a track much worn by the 
tread of laboring generations. There are 
commonly two or three squeezings of the 
pulp, the product of the first being of the 
finest quality; but the process, once begun, 
must be carried forward continuously, lest 
the oil should spoil in the making. It is 
finally drawn off into huge earthen jars of - 
immemorial pattern, like those in which the 
Forty Thieves of the Arabian tale con- 
cealed themselves for nefarious purposes. 
It stands thus for a week in the adjoining 
clearing-room, called the chiaritoiOy after 
which it is ready for the market. 

Oil is a precious commodity, zealously 
guarded at every stage of its manufacture, 
and even while it settles in the clearing- 
room, there is a watchman on duty day and 
night. The orchards, too, are tended with 
great care. At best, the trees do not bear 
until they are twenty years old, but, if prop- 
erly treated, their life is a long one, when 

240 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

they escape the hail-storm or cloud-burst 
of the mountain slopes. The whole produc- 
tion of the Chianti district is practically 
limited to the grape and olive. For though 
some grain is grown at the lower levels, the 
soil is really unsuited to it. 

On the ground-floor of Dievole a long 
passage runs from the principal entrance to 
an inner paved court inclosed by the kitchen, 
stables, and other offices, — a picturesque 
place, with an old well at one end of it, long 
disused. On the garden side of the passage, 
facing south, are the dining and reception 
rooms, the latter the usual rendezvous of 
the family when it proves too cold outside 
to sit upon the terrace. On the other side is 
the principal staircase and the kitchen, — the 
oldest and most interesting room in the 
house, vaulted, like a salle de gardes^ with 
an enormous fireplace over a raised stone 
hearth, two feet high, on which the roast- 
ing of meat with clockwork appliances for 
turning the spit has a kind of ceremonial 

241 



Lands of Summer 

dignity. On the floor above there is a draw- 
ing-room opening into a large central hall, 
used as a billiard-room, in which the per- 
plexing corridors leading, or misleading, to 
the sleeping apartments converge. 

The daily life at Dievole is of the most 
simple and informal character, as befits the 
remote, rough country, where there is no 
neighborhood, and social obligations are not 
to be considered. Morning coffee is served 
in the chambers, according to continental 
custom ; after which each member of the 
family follows his own bent until the eleven 
o'clock breakfast, when the household as- 
sembles for the first time. The padrone, in 
these morning hours, is busy with his cor- 
respondence or with cross-examination of 
his wily fattore. The guest is his own mas- 
ter. Breakfast is a long, substantial meal, and 
there is much lingering over the table after- 
ward. Then follows, in the early afternoon, 
some sort of expedition : a drive in an ox- 
cart to the post-town ; a visit to the quaintly 

242 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

picturesque mountain-village of Carpineto, 
that hamlet of sixty souls who are all domi- 
ciled on three sides of an irregular public 
square, which, on the fourth side, is left open 
to the southern sunshine ; or a long tramp 
across country by the woodland paths 
through the underbrush up hill and down 
dale to some distant part of the estate. 

In this way, under guidance of some one 
of the family, we visited several of the farm- 
houses, to which the peasants welcomed us 
most cordially, bringing wine to drink and 
inviting inspection of their establishments. 
Some of these have curious features. At the 
New Farm, before mentioned, there is, for 
instance, a loggia of architectural importance, 
with a wonderful view down the hillsides to 
Siena; also a living-room of patriarchal pro- 
portions, with a fine chimney-piece and the 
original rude cinque cento decorations in color 
upon the walls. Along one side of the room 
was a narrow table in carved oak, with long 
benches capable of seating forty persons 

243 



Lands of Summer 

comfortably, — interesting relics of the ori- 
ginal furniture. Another farmhouse had be- 
side it a wide terrace, finely paved, immacu- 
late as a dining-table. This is the aia^ used 
for the thrashing of grain. 

In these excursions the signs of friendly 
intercourse between the padrone and his 
farm-hands were everywhere apparent. The 
tenants whose hospitality we shared seemed 
entirely content with their lot, light-hearted, 
and happy. At the farm of La Casetta we 
saw and photographed the entire family. As 
none of them had ever posed for a likeness 
before, the event at once became momen- 
tous. Their group was arranged and disar- 
ranged ; one small boy positively refused to 
join it ; we urged him in vain, finally elicit- 
ing the fact that he was only a distant cousin, 
and therefore felt the impropriety of figur- 
ing among the family, which lined up once 
more without him. Then suddenly, with 
one voice, it called a halt ; the youngest 
member, asleep upstairs, had been forgotten. 

244 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

The mother rushed off, returning in a mo- 
ment with her poor, half-awakened bambino, 
tightly swathed in its bandages. At last, to 
the great satisfaction of all, the photograph 
was taken, and a copy of it is now a trea- 
sured possession of the household. 

Our longest tramp was to a point fully 
two hours' walk from Dievole, called Com- 
munella, where is the private pottery of the 
estate, at which all the olive-jars and other 
earthen utensils are made. The furnace 
stands upon a hill in the neck of the hour- 
glass, and is the half-way landmark of the 
property, which still opened to the south 
indefinitely. Eastward, among the hills, 
could be seen the roofs of the Castello di 
Brolio, — the most famous of all the Chianti 
vineyards, from which wine is shipped to all 
parts of the world. 

The view on all sides from Communella 
is a very extended one, characteristic of the 
country, which has a rugged, volcanic cast, 
suggesting some imaginative drawing of 

245 



Lands of Summer 

Dore. Much of its vegetation is unfamiliar 
to the foreigner. There are gaunt stone-pines 
with spreading tops, glossy ilexes, and dark, 
sharp-pointed cypress trees. Amid flower- 
ing heather and broom, which straggle every- 
where underfoot, grows the corbezzolo^ a 
thick, evergreen shrub bearing a crimson 
fruit, the size of a large cherry, with a pleas- 
ant, pungent flavor, used as the barberry 
is in New England, for jellies and preserves. 
We plunged through a tangle of this wild 
growth to the bottom of a deep gorge, where 
in the dry bed of a torrent a sulphur spring 
bubbles and boils and smells infernally ; 
and, diverted from the path into another 
thicket, we were shown an ancient uccellatoio^ 
a labyrinth of dwarfed ilex trees with closely 
interwoven branches, under which, by means 
of limed twigs, small game was formerly 
trapped. Every feature of the landscape was 
so new and strange that our incursions upon 
it were like walks in another planet. No farm- 
ing country could be more unlike our own. 

246 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

At the seven o'clock dinner of Dievole 
we were forbidden to wear evening dress 
upon pain of death. The meal was a long 
one of many courses, and after it we sat on 
at table, smoking, for an hour or two, some- 
times until nearly ten o'clock. Then, in the 
adjoining room, we had a round game of 
cards, or a sleight-of-hand performance by 
our host, who is a master in that kind ; and 
thence, at what he called the ora canonica^ 
somewhere on the hither side of eleven, we 
retired in good order. 

On Sunday morning, at nine, the bell 
rang in the chapel campanile, and a priest 
clattered up the avenue on horseback, com- 
ing from an earlier mass in a remote village. 
A horde of contadini swarmed into the 
chapel, and we followed presently with the 
family, through a small door in the back of 
the building, opening into a private box at 
the left of the altar. After the service we 
were taken round to see the fine old altar- 
piece, — a Holy Family of the school of 

247 



Lands of Summer 

Titian, possibly by one of his pupils ; for, 
though unsigned, it was surely good six- 
teenth-century work. The jolly young priest 
was urged to take breakfast with us ; but he 
would accept only a cup of black coffee, 
which was served for him in the reception- 
room, while he chatted with the family upon 
affairs of church and state. As mass must 
be celebrated fasting, he had eaten nothing 
that morning; but his outlook upon the 
world seemed none the less cheery in 
consequence. On the contrary, he waited 
awhile longer, to pose several times for his 
photograph with much pride and circum- 
stance; then, finally, he mounted and rode 
off, urbane and merry to the last. 

Except for a most unexpected afternoon 
call from two ladies who drove over from a 
distant villa on the chance of finding us, 
this official visit from the priest was our only 
contact with the world. The life at Dievole 
is self-dependent, secluded as that of some 
desert island, its resources all coming from 

248 



Life on a Tuscan Farm 

within. It is rarely long continued. The 
padrone has a country-house in another 
part of Tuscany, where the conditions are 
entirely normal, with manners and customs 
differing in no marked degree from those 
of other civilized communities. To his farm 
he repairs at intervals, generally for a week 
or two at a time, often bringing a house- 
party with him. Or, if he desires absolute 
rest, Dievole is a splendid refuge. "In the 
other place," he says, " they know the 
ropes, can get at me, and fish me up. Here 
I am my own master, — and I am safe." 

We left him there, one bright morning, 
to his shining solitude among his flowers. 
There was no cloud in the sky, and the 
shadow of the fattore seemed the only one 
on all the landscape. Since the early days 
of Eden, there has been no garden without 
a snake rustling through the grass, — except, 
perhaps, in Ireland. 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



APR 18 1908 



